Knight Errant
by chazper
Summary: It's been forever, but I just realized that I never posted the ending of this story. A Chrismukkah Request Story: Ryan gets into a dangerous situation trying to help someone. Part 8B: Overdue Conversations COMPLETED Finally!
1. Chapter 1

**For Diva5256**

_Pairing/Character: No specific pairing (although Kandy can be together) Focusing on Cohens+1 but other characters can pop up._

_Prefered length : Any_

_Scenario Plot: Ryan gets into a dangerous situation thanks to trying to help someone he shouldn't (can be character of your choice). Either Sandy, Kirsten or Seth saves him and it makes Kandy address their absentee parenting over the last few weeks._

_Ratings: Fairly low_

_Smut: Not this time_

_Specifics : I want lots of Cohens+1 bonding and possibly some Ryan based H/C_ Knight-Errant 

Ryan emerged from the bathroom sleepy-eyed and damp-haired in his jeans and his socks. With one hand shielding his face from the sunlight, he groped for a wicker basket. Snagging a wifebeater, he started to fumble languidly with the armholes when he heard the poolhouse door slide open behind him. Instantly alert, he shimmied into the shirt, spinning around at the same time.

"Ah. Just you," he observed, as Seth shambled inside, stumbling over the ottoman. His mouth crinkled with amusement, Ryan sat down to pull on his boots.

With a morose wave, Seth flopped onto the bed. He crossed his hands over his chest and stared up at the ceiling. "The clowns will eat you," his wrinkled t-shirt cautioned.

Almost a full minute passed with no sound. Ryan's brows creased into an anxious question. "Um . . . Seth?" he prompted at last. "What's going on? I said 'just you' and you said . . . nothing. No retort, no quip, no snap back. Nothing. Are you okay?"

Seth heaved a deep, dramatic sigh. "I don't know, Ryan," he replied. He paused, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled heavily. "Am I okay? Are you okay? Are we okay? And by 'we' incidentally, I mean the entire foursquare Cohen-slash-Atwood clan."

"The . . . clan." Ryan squinted dubiously. "Seth?"

"Also you do understand that I'm using 'okay' in all senses of the word: psychic, emotional, psychological, spiritual. Cosmically okay, so to speak."

With a relieved chuckle, Ryan resumed tying his bootlaces. "So this is just your annual post-holiday depression then, right?"

"No, Ryan, no it's not." Seth rolled onto his stomach, cradling his head on a squashed pillow. "True, Chrismukkah is over. And that, of course, is always profoundly sad in the whole no-more-bright-shiny presents kind of way, but this . . . this is deeper."

"Ah. Something about Summer then." Ryan pressed his palms together and propped them under his chin, nodding sagely. "Go ahead. I'll hear it."

Animation brightened Seth's face, and he looked up eagerly. "Excellent. So, first of all, dude, this not about Summer--"

Ryan's silent, skeptical frown cut him off.

"It's not!" Seth insisted. He clambered to a sitting position. Even his curls seemed to bristle with hurt indignation. "I'll have you know, I do think about things other than Summer."

"True," Ryan agreed, ticking the items off on his fingers. "Graphic novels. Japanese cinema. Indie rock groups."

"You mock, my man Atwood, but I, the Ironist, am not deceived. Don't even pretend you haven't been, well, worried too. Or at least concerned."

His gaze plummeting, Ryan buffed the scuffed toe of one boot. "Concerned?" he echoed vaguely. "What about?"

"About Mom and Dad."

"Your parents are fine, Seth." The words sounded clipped, almost automatic, as if Ryan had anticipated Seth's answer. "They're both really busy and . . ."

"And preoccupied and distant and doing things that don't make a whole lot of sense considering who they are," Seth concluded. "Or who I thought they were anyway. Also, and you must have noticed this too, the Kirsten and the Sanford? Have pretty much been ignoring us lately."

"Seth come on," Ryan protested. "What about when we were choosing colleges? All your dad's advice? Enlisting his friend from Berkeley to come down here?"

"Pimping his alma mater isn't paying attention to us, dude. Besides, that was, like, months ago."

"Well still . . . we all spent a lot of time together during Chrismukkah."

Seth swung out his fist. At the last moment, he thought better of connecting with Ryan's shoulder and instead pounded the air in a sketchy power salute. "Exactly!" he proclaimed. "Way to make my point for me, Ryan. Mom and Dad hung around during Chrismukkah. But that, as everyone knows, is the universal season to visit estranged relatives, exchange hardy 'hail fellow, well mets' . . ."

"Hail fellow well-met?"

"Shakespeare. I think. Anyway, so not important. The thing is, people get together over the holidays because that's what they're supposed to do. Then it's back to business as usual. Well, my friend, Chrismukkah is over, and in Casa Cohen, business as usual means . . . business. And Mom and Dad? Gone again. Just like that." Seth snapped his fingers—twice, since the first time produced just a dull "_pfff_." "Vanished into the alternate universe of their appointment calendars."

Frowning, Ryan ran his thumb around the ridged edge of his watch. "That's not true," he demurred. "We see them at breakfast . . . well, sometimes. And we all had dinner together--"

"Chrismukkah gatherings don't count, remember," Seth cautioned.

"Okay, fine. Forget Chrismukkah. We had dinner together just . . . it was just . . ." Ryan's voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Ha! And I repeat, ha! There's no 'just' if you can't even remember the last time, dude. Seriously, Dad's all wrapped up in the Newport Group, like he's trying to salvage the Titanic or something. And Mom . . . She's running a dating service, Ryan! A freaking dating service! With Julie Cooper-Nichol-almost Cooper! First she tries cooking and now this. What did they do at Suriak? Stepford-wive her or something?"

A shadow flickered across Ryan's face. "Your mom's keeping herself occupied, Seth. That's important for somebody who's trying not to . . ."

"Drink, Ryan. Got it. I don't want Mom checking out the alcohol content of the cough syrup either. But if she's not going back to the Newport Group—and by the way, why the hell isn't she?"

"Don't know," Ryan confessed. His voice sounded distant. Crossing the room to get a sweater, he added over his shoulder, "But I'm sure she has her reasons."

"Then why hasn't she told us about them? Wait, you know why? That would be because Mom and Dad don't talk to us."

Ryan squirmed uncomfortably. "You're exaggerating, Seth."

"Not this time, bro," Seth insisted. "Or at least not so much. Anyway, if Mom does want a different job, shouldn't she be doing something, I don't know, Kirsten Cohen-y? Like . . . hell, opening an art gallery or working for the city planning commission or . . . something. You know, with substance. But a dating service? Come on, that is pure, unadulterated Julie Cooper- Nichol-almost Cooper."

"I know," Ryan sighed.

"And since when is Mom joined at the hip to Julie anyway?"

Ducking his head, Ryan hunched one shoulder. "They're friends," he mumbled. "They got really close because of your grandfather, I guess."

There was a pause as Seth smoothed out the comforter next to him. He glanced furtively at Ryan, who was twisting his watchband, letting the links bite into his skin. "I don't think she knows, man," he said at last.

"What?"

"Mom. I don't think she knows Julie had anything to do with the cops arresting you for shooting Trey. I mean I didn't tell her. No way you would. And Dad—I don't think he wanted to risk upsetting her when she first got back from rehab. It was a lot, you know, for her to face all at once. And then . . . well, it was kinda too late."

"I didn't mean . . ." Ryan flushed. "Look, it doesn't matter."

"Sure it does. Ryan, you can't believe Mom would just be all right with Julie if she knew."

"No, I know. It's okay. " Ryan's voice wavered slightly. "That's not what we were talking about anyway." He snapped his watchband back on his wrist, an audible cue to change the subject, and Seth nodded tersely.

"Right. So. Back to the topic at hand: the mystery of the absentee landlord parents. What do you think, Joe Hardy?"

"Joe Hardy?" Ryan grimaced with disgust. "Please. I would definitely be Frank. And as for your parents being busy, Seth . . . we can't really complain. It's not like we're around the house much either."

"Ah, so true," Seth conceded, nodding until his curls bobbed. "But that is as it should be, because we, buddy, are in the prime of teenage-hood, our salad days if you will, when we sow our wild oats, cut loose, hit our sexual peak--"

Ryan flinched and held up a restraining hand. "Seth? Don't say sexual peak. Seriously."

"Fine. But see, Ryan, the thing is, Mom and Dad don't even seem to care that we're not around or even what we're doing lately." Seth buried his face in the pillow, muffling his next words. "They're supposed to care."

In the process of pulling on a blue sweater, Ryan paused to peer over its neck. "This really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does." Seth produced a faint, abashed grin, but his eyes were bereft. "Okay, I know it totally makes me sound like I'm five, but—I miss them, man. The way they were when you first got here, remember? All overprotective and in our business and hovering and making us check in like every hour when we went anywhere? Hey, it was annoying as hell, but it was just . . . right."

"No, I get that, but . . ." Ryan swallowed. Recalling Sandy aborting conversations so he could rush to the office, Kirsten abandoning family dinners in order to visit Julie, all the curtailed greetings and goodbyes, he finished weakly, "Maybe they don't realize how you feel." At Seth's incisive stare, he amended, "All right, how _we_ feel. But Seth, it's not like we're little kids. I mean, next year we're gonna be gone anyway."

Seth rocked forward eagerly. "Yeah but no," he argued. "See, that's exactly why this year should . . . shit, it should matter, Ryan. Mom and Dad should be hanging around, giving us useless advice, telling embarrassing stories about their college days, warning us about the dangers of random hook-ups and blowing off classes. Instead they're MIA. Or AWOL. Or, I don't know—some stupid acronym for just not around." Seth plucked miserably at the pillowcase. "Maybe it's not as bad for you, dude. You at least talk to Dad at the Newport Group offices."

"Not as much as you'd think." Lowering his eyes, Ryan busied himself hitching up his sleeves. "Mostly I just work with Matt." Despite his best efforts, disappointment seeped into his voice. "I suppose that makes sense though. My internship was his idea, really, not Sandy's."

"So you and dad don't hang out together either?"

Ryan's mouth curled in a small, mirthless grin. "It's a job, Seth. We don't hang out at all. Your dad's in his office, and I'm doing grunt work for Matt. Trust me, you're not missing any quality time there."

"Okay, that should totally make me feel better. But you know what? It doesn't." Glumly, Seth kneaded the pillow between his hands. "Quality time," he muttered. At the sound of his own words, he sat up, a slow smile tugging at his mouth until it fell into the craters of his dimples. "Ryan? Eureka!" Bounding to his feet on top of the bed, Seth bounced triumphantly. "Eufreakingreka! Quality time is exactly what we need. And we—by which I mean you and I, buddy—are going to demand just that."

A particularly exuberant jump pitched Seth over, arms flailing. Ryan caught him just before he hit the ground. "So what did you have in mind?" he asked wryly. "All of us gathered in your hospital room while you recover from breaking your neck?"

Seth straightened his bathrobe with ruffled dignity. "Nothing that drastic. But thanks for the save, by the way. No, just a family night, Seth-Ryan style. Dinner—our choice; videos--also our choice. Maybe thumb through some course catalogues together. Make lists of stuff we'll need next year when we're far, far away. You know, tug the old heartstrings. Remind Mom and Dad just what they'll miss without us here." Eyes sparkling, Seth smoothed his disheveled hair into place. "Summer and Marissa are doing that spa thing with Kaitlin after school today, right?"

Ryan nodded. "They're staying the weekend. Marissa is trying to make up for neglecting Kaitlin. And Summer--"

"Loves the whole cucumber and seaweed wrap experience," Seth concluded. "Yeah, I know. When I was at her place once she tried . . . Right, TMI. Not something I want to relive anyway. So the point is, I'm a free agent tonight. You?"

"I've got to work until six-thirty. But after that, yeah."

"Okay, then. Okay." His brow furrowing thoughtfully, Seth tapped his fingers together. "So I'll take care of ordering the food, selecting the movies, creating the appropriate bonding ambiance. You, RA, can simply show up. You want to write that down, or do you think you'll remember?"

"Yeah, I think I've got it," Ryan answered dryly. "But what about your parents, Seth? They might already have plans."

Seth gave his head a decisive shake. "If they do, they'll just have to cancel them. Let's go, Ryan. I'm about to perform my signature role, the persuasive, not-too-proud-to-beg son. You get to play the silent, supportive brother. Can you handle that?" Ryan shot Seth a quick, sideways glare. "Yeah, only no, that's not it. A little more wounded puppy, a little less threatening I-can-wound-you. Work on it, dude."

With a bow, Seth held the pool house door open, until Ryan, rolling his eyes, started across the patio.

In the kitchen, Sandy was slathering cream cheese on a bagel while Kirsten sipped coffee and entered notes in her PDA.

"Oh look, Ryan." Seth stopped short inside the doorway, clutching his chest with extravagant surprise. "Faintly familiar-looking people in our very own house. Sir, madam, allow me to introduce myself. Seth Cohen. Seth Ezekiel Cohen, actually. And you, sir, are . . .?"

"Your father," Sandy replied, shaking open the newspaper. He raised his eyebrows above the top of the front page "What's this about, Seth?"

"About?" Seth widened his eyes innocently. "Why, nothing father. Ryan and I just think it's quite pleasant to see you both here this morning. For a change."

When neither parent responded, Seth scowled. He filched the bagel from his father's hand and danced out of reach.

"Hey!" Sandy protested. "Schmear your own, son."

"You want your bagel back? Fine. I'll return it, unbitten. But first, mon pere, Ryan and I have a list of demands. Well, one demand anyway. Do as we ask and no harm will come to the bagel. Until you eat it, I mean."

"Seth! Ryan, what is he talking about?"

Shaking his head, Ryan held up his hands and retreated a step. "Don't ask me. I'm playing the silent, supportive part."

"The . . . what?"

Ryan held a finger to his lips, and gestured toward Seth with his other hand.

Sandy groaned. "Fine. Seth, explain yourself. Now."

"Okay." Grinning, Seth plopped down at the counter. He patted the stool next to him, waiting until Ryan sat down before he continued. "Here's the deal, Dad. Mom? Hey, Mom! Attention here, please! You need to be part of this too."

Kirsten frowned, pushed a button on her PDA, and checked her watch. "Hmm?" she murmured vaguely. "Oh, good morning boys. You both have a great day. I have to run. Julie says she finished designing our website last night and I'm a little worried about what she has planned." Draining the last of her coffee, she locked her briefcase and picked up her jacket.

"Wait! And what? No!" Seth protested. "You are not running out of here to look at some website design. "Sit, woman!"

"Seth," Ryan hissed, jabbing an elbow into his ribs as Sandy slammed the newspaper down on the table.

"I mean," Seth amended sweetly, "please give us a moment of your time, mother dear."

"Better," Sandy growled.

Arching her brows quizzically, Kirsten set down her briefcase. "I'm listening," she announced, her voice clipped and business-like.

"Good. Right. So . . ." His confidence failing under his parents' impatient stares, Seth leaned over to Ryan. "Tell them, dude," he whispered.

"Me?" Ryan protested. "I'm silent and supportive, remember?"

"Yeah, well, I decided you deserve a bigger role. Go ahead. You can do it, Snoopy."

Ryan glared, then sighed and nodded. "Seth . . . Seth and I, that is . . . would like you both to join us for a family dinner tonight. And a video afterwards."

He stopped. Kirsten and Sandy swiveled to face Seth, waiting expectantly.

"Right. What he said," Seth confirmed. He plastered on an ingratiating cheek-to-cheek smile. "Just the four of us. No interruptions, no distractions. Quality family time. Remember that, guys?"

Sandy's eyes widened with obvious surprise. "That's it?" he demanded. "That's all? You're holding my bagel hostage for a family dinner?"

"Of course not," Seth replied indignantly. "That would be . . . I . . . well, yeah, I guess so."

Her cool demeanor melting, Kirsten leaned down to kiss Ryan's cheek. "It's a lovely idea, sweetie." She turned to kiss Seth. "Both of you. But could I take a rain check? Julie and I are hosting a cocktail party for new clients at the country club tomorrow, and we have some last-minute details to go over tonight."

"And the contracting companies are submitting their bids today," Sandy added. "I want to review them this evening. But hey, guys, it sounds terrific. We'll do it real soon."

He reached for his bagel, but Seth passed it behind his back to Ryan, scowling furiously. "No! Tonight!" he argued. "Ryan and I are available tonight! Mom, Dad—come on. It's almost February. Which means almost March, which means almost spring, which means almost summer, which means almost August. Which, may I remind you, is when we'll be leaving for college."

Kirsten and Sandy exchanged startled looks.

"College," Seth repeated, elongating the word. "In other cities. Other states even. Perchance—dare I say it?—other time zones."

"Perchance, Seth?" Ryan whispered, handing back the bagel.

His eyes never leaving his parents, Seth leaned close to answer. "Shakespeare," he murmured. "Which you would know if you'd read more, buddy."

Peering at Kirsten over the boys' heads, Sandy smiled ruefully. "They will be gone before we know it, sweetheart," he observed. "I guess reviewing the bids could wait until tomorrow."

"And I suppose Julie can handle things at the club on her own," Kirsten mused. "All right, boys. What time would you like us?"

"Seven-thirty?" Ryan suggested after a glance at Seth. "So I'll have time to get home and get changed?"

Seth beamed. "Sounds like a plan." He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "So, I'm thinking maybe Chinese. Or Cambodian. Or pizza. And for the movie . . ."

"No Star Wars, no Lord of the Rings, no Spiderman or Batman," Kirsten warned. "And no Japanese anime, Seth. Not if you expect me to stay awake."

"Mother, please." Seth pouted, looking hurt. "For your information, tonight I plan to screen a classic."

Sandy raised his eyebrows. "Ah, a classic. That sounds intriguing. What do you have in mind? Citizen Kane? Casablanca?"

"No, but you're close, Dad. Tonight," Seth announced, "we will be watching . . . wait for it . . . the original version of King Kong."

"Um . . . Seth, how is that close?" Ryan asked.

Seth draped an arm over Ryan's shoulder. "Think, man," he urged. Kane . . . Casa . . . King Kong? K-k-k-k? They all start with the same sound."

Rolling his eyes, Sandy snatched his bagel back from Seth. "I don't think alliterative titles is a film genre, son. And it's Citizen Kane anyway. But I wouldn't mind seeing the original King Kong. I do have a thing for sexy blondes."

"Dad!" Seth yelped, as Sandy dropped a kiss on Kirsten's forehead.

"What? I'm just approving your choice, son. Right now, though, I do have to get to the office. Ryan remember, Matt's expecting you right after school. That proposal you two have been working on is due tomorrow."

"I know," Ryan replied. "I'll be there."

Kirsten straightened her jacket. "I have to run too before Julie launches our website without my approval or changes the company name again." She picked up her briefcase and brushed a hasty kiss on each boy's cheek. "See you tonight," she murmured, and followed Sandy out the door.

The kitchen settled into momentary silence. Seth held up Ryan's wrist and glanced at his watch. "Hmm . . . six minutes with all four of us in the same space at the same time talking to each other. I'd say that's a record for this month."

"They agreed to the dinner, Seth," Ryan pointed out as he pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard.

"True, that they did," Seth conceded. "And a memorable occasion it will be. Operation Restore Our Family Ties is underway." He popped a handful of Captain Crunch into his mouth. "I' jus' goes to roove . . ." he mumbled around his mouthful.

"Seth, that's disgusting. Chew. Swallow. Then talk."

Obediently, Seth finished eating before he continued. "It just goes to prove my theory," he declared, giving his own chest a self-satisfied pat. "United, Ryan? We are unstoppable."

Ryan frowned quizzically. "And divided . . .?"

"No, no "divided"!" Seth wagged a warning finger. "No negative thinking! Tonight everything goes according to plan. It's simple. It's doable. It involves no lying, no road trips, no girlfriends or evil deans or needy surfers or tattooed guys looking for a fight. And just so we're clear, what exactly is your part again, dude?"

"Um . . ." Ryan hedged, teasing. Seth glowered and he grinned. "Be here?"

"Exactly. Here and—this is important—on time."

"Here and on time," Ryan repeated. He tossed a piece of cereal in the air and caught it in his mouth. When he finished chewing, he crossed his heart and held up two fingers. "Absolutely. No problem, Seth. Just like you said . . . tonight everything goes according to plan. Hey, what could go wrong anyway?"

TBC


	2. Part 2: Matt's Problem

Knight-Errant, Part 2: Matt's Problem 

His schoolbag already slung over his shoulder, Ryan knocked on Matt's open office door. "You want to check this proposal before I leave?" he suggested, head bent over the file he was holding. "I know I was just supposed to make the cover, but I think there's a mistake on page fourteen--"

He stopped abruptly, realizing that he was addressing an empty room. With a puzzled frown, Ryan dropped the folder on Matt's desk and ducked back outside the office. "Matt?" he called. His voice echoed eerily in the vacant corridor.

Leaning against the doorframe, Ryan drummed his fingers against the polished wood. It was six twenty-five, and Seth had already text-messaged him twice warning "No overtime!" and "LateNo Dessert!" Five tedious minutes ticked away with no sign of Matt. Frustrated, Ryan checked the conference rooms and the restroom, but they were all deserted. In fact, since the office staff left at 6:00 and Sandy was working at home, the Newport Group offices appeared abandoned.

For a moment, Ryan considered simply leaving Matt a note along with the proposal, but there was always the chance that he wouldn't see it in time. Besides, it would be easier to explain the problem in person.

Cursing silently, Ryan dialed Matt's cell phone. It rang twice and he groaned, convinced it would go to voicemail. "Come on, man," he muttered. "Where the hell are you?"

Matt finally answered on the fourth ring. "Ryan? What's up?" he asked. His voice, lazy and laughing, slipped off the final consonants.

"You tell me," Ryan retorted. He could hear noise in the background—loud music, insistent drums, blurred, smoky voices. "I've got the proposal you wanted."

"Great, man. Just leave it downstairs at reception. A um, a courier from Lanton Enterprises will pick it up tomorrow."

"Okay, only . . ." Ryan glanced longingly at the door before expelling a grudging breath. "Look, Matt, I think you should check it before it goes out. The graph on page fourteen doesn't make sense to me. Are you . . . where are you anyway?" His fingers tightened on the phone, dreading Matt's answer, and already knowing what it would be.

"Look, Lily, give me a minute, okay?" he heard Matt urge in a muffled whisper. Then he said into the phone, "I figured we were done, Ryan, so I, um . . . I left early . . . Shit, are you sure the graph's wrong?"

"No. That's why you need to look at it."

In his mind, Ryan could hear Seth ranting, "You, dude. Remember? The guy with the MBA? The one who's actually collecting a salary here? The one who's supposed to be . . . where exactly right now? Oh, that's right, sitting in his office, and not underneath some incredibly hot girl who's grinding against him, her boobs inches away from his face and . . . wait. What were we talking about again?"

Ryan almost grinned until Matt's mumbled "Damn it!" silenced Seth's phantom tirade.

There was a pause.

"So . . . are you coming back?" Ryan demanded. He gritted his teeth. "I'm due home pretty soon, but I guess I could wait to show you what I mean."

"Look, Ryan, that won't . . . All right, lemme see. Why don't we, um, why don't we do it this way? Bring me the proposal. I'm, ah, I'm at the club. The one I brought you to that time."

"Yeah. I figured."

"Well, it's practically on your way home, right? You bring the proposal here, and I can work on it overnight. I'll make sure it's ready by the time the courier comes to pick it up."

Ryan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to the club, maybe ten to talk to Matt, another ten minutes home—yeah, as long as traffic cooperated, he could make it in time for dinner at seven-thirty. "Okay," he conceded. "Meet me outside?"

"No, come in. I'll tell the manager I'm expecting you, see if he can't set us up with a table in the back. And Ryan—thanks for this, man." Matt hesitated. "We don't need to mention it to Sandy, right?" he added around a weak chuckle. "No harm, no foul?"

"Shit, Matt, don't put me in the middle--"

"Ryan, come on, this isn't like last time," Matt insisted. "I've been working straight through from 6:30 this morning, didn't even take a lunch break. So I left a little early, that's all. Like I told you, I thought everything was done on my end."

Despite himself, Ryan responded to the urgent plea in Matt's voice. "I suppose," he agreed uneasily. "Just be waiting, all right?"

"Absolutely. I owe you, man."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The doorman took one look at Ryan and waved him through the entrance. "Back hall, around the corner," he said, gesturing with his chin. "Third door on the left. Lily's waiting . . ." Leering, he tucked the twenty-dollar bill Ryan offered back into his hand. "Nah, your money's no good here. You got some damn special friends, don't you now, kid?"

Ignoring the man's innuendo, Ryan turned down the dim corridor, moving at a near sprint since a traffic jam had already made him almost ten minutes late. He braked abruptly when a door flew open in front of him. A girl scurried out, hitching up her bra, one shaking arm outstretched as though to fend off something or someone.

"Jerry! Come here! I need you!" she yelled. Still backing up, she stumbled blindly into Ryan's chest.

"Whoa," he cautioned, catching the girl's elbows to steady her. She gasped and wheeled around, eyes frantic, her breathing hectic and shallow.

A hulking man with thick, tattooed arms strode toward them. "This sonofabitch bothering you Chelsea?" he demanded. His voice deepened to a menacing growl as he rounded on Ryan. "Get your fucking hands off her, punk! Now!"

Confused, the girl blinked at Ryan, who dropped his arms and warily stepped away. "What?" she stammered, brushing strands of bright red hair out of her eyes. "No, not him, Jerry. It's that guy, Colston--the one you threw out yesterday. He's inside--followed me into my dressing room--"

Without a word, Jerry shoved past Ryan through the doorway. He emerged three seconds later, hauling another man in a headlock. "You made of stupid, you shit?" he sneered. "Yesterday was a goddamn warning. This time you're out of here for good." Over his shoulder, he gruffly assured the girl, "Don't worry, Chelsea. I'll take care of this fucker."

The girl shuddered, nodding her thanks as Jerry dragged the intruder toward the exit.

Ryan's gaze darted from their retreating figures back to Chelsea, who stood motionless, hugging herself. "Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes dark with concern. He moved a half step closer, but didn't touch her.

"Yeah, I'm all right. Just . . . I turned around and there he was. It scared me a little." Chelsea shrugged ruefully. "Assholes like that . . . they're an occupational hazard, you know?" Finally looking at Ryan, she attempted an ironic smile. It widened into pleased recognition as she studied his face. "Hey, I know you, right?"

Ryan shook his head. "I'm not sure . . ."

"Yeah, I do—well, kinda. You were here a few weeks ago. I was Sipowicz that night, remember?" Chelsea lifted her chin, pouting playfully. "What? Did you forget me already, ace?"

"Ahhh . . ." Ryan's breath hissed through his teeth. "No. You're pretty memorable. You just look . . . different today, that's all."

Twirling a crimson curl around her finger, Chelsea examined her skimpy cave girl outfit. "Oh right," she conceded. "Blonde cop, then, Wilma Flintstone now. Hey, got to change the look sometimes, keep my steady customers interested. So . . . you get lost back here or something? 'Cause the public restrooms are the other way."

"No, I'm supposed to . . . uh, meet someone." Ryan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Third room on the left, the doorman said. I should just . . ."

"Oh." Chelsea's eyes widened. "You must be Matt's friend. Ryan, right? Lily told me about you. I'm Chelsea, by the way. Listen, sorry I almost knocked you over. And thanks . . . for not trying to cop a feel, I mean. If I fell on top of most of the guys who come here . . . well, you can imagine." The music changed, and she tossed her hair, refastening the bone-shaped clip that held it in place. "Shit! I should be out there already. Gotta go, ace."

Blowing Ryan a kiss, Chelsea ran toward the stage and into a haze of pulsing lights.

Ryan exhaled heavily. His eyes still on Chelsea's receding form, he backed down the hallway, pausing before he knocked on the third door.

"Matt? It's me," he called softly, just in case there was a mistake. The last thing he wanted was to walk into the wrong room.

Lily opened the door, a flimsy robe over her abbreviated cowgirl outfit. "Ryan, hi," she said, with obvious relief. She slipped out, holding the door closed behind her. "Matt was starting to worry. He's waiting inside. Listen, I'm due onstage in a minute, but can I get you anything? A drink? Well, a soft drink?"

"No. Um . . . thanks. But I'm not staying long."

"Right." Lily lowered her voice. "Listen, I really appreciate you bringing those papers here. Swear to God, Ryan, Matt just came to unwind. He wasn't trying to blow off anything. And he would have gone back to the office, except, well, he's had a few drinks . . ."

"Yeah, I guessed," Ryan observed dryly. "Look, Lily, I'm not going to say anything about this. But Matt will have to explain if the proposal isn't ready in the morning."

"He'll have it done," Lily promised. "He's been drinking coffee ever since you called. Go on in, Ryan. I'll let you guys get to work." Opening the door behind her, she flashed a grateful smile and left.

Matt looked up as Ryan entered, his expression an anxious blend of determination and guilt. "God, thanks for coming, Ryan. I thought maybe you'd changed your mind. Figured you might have gone to Sandy with the proposal."

"Sorry. Traffic jam," Ryan explained. "And I wouldn't do that. This is your project."

"And my problem, right?"

"Shit," Ryan hissed under his breath. "Matt, could you just take a look at that graph? I'm kind of in a hurry."

"Yeah. Absolutely." Matt scraped his hands through his hair and took the binder from Ryan, hitching his chair close to the table as he spoke. "You want to call Sandy or your girlfriend—whoever's waiting—let them know you'll be late?"

Glancing at his watch, Ryan shook his head. "I'll call on the way home. Let's just get this done now."

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Hands clasped behind his back, Seth paced around the table, inspecting it critically. The glassware sparkled and the dishes, draped with blue napkins, were centered on placemats with chopsticks arranged in precise Vs on top of them. A single yellow lily nodded in a vase in front of Kirsten's setting.

Frowning, Seth nudged his father's plate slightly to the right, then to the left, and finally back to its original position. "Perfection!" he declared with satisfaction. Pressing his palms together, he hummed crowd noise and bowed, murmuring modestly, "Thank you, thank you all . . . Aaaaand, okay, turns out it's not so much fun to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd when you have to provide them yourself. Where the hell is everybody?"

The refrigerator door clicked open behind him, and Seth spun around. "Ryan, my man, about time you—Oh, Mom, hey. So . . ." With a grand sweep of his arm, Seth presented his handiwork. "What do you think?"

Motioning for silence with her water bottle, Kirsten indicated the phone at her ear. "No, Julie," she said firmly. "That's not acceptable. We ordered twelve tables . . . Do you need me to speak to the manager? . . . Are you sure, because I could come down . . ."

"No!" Seth yelped. Snatching the phone from his mother's hand, he darted away. "No calls! No 'coming down.' Mom!"

"Seth Ezekiel Cohen! That was very rude. Julie might have something more to tell me."

Glowering, Seth stashed the phone in the refrigerator, guarding the door with his body. "So she can tell it to the leftover hummus," he retorted. "Because you know what's rude, Mom? Putting business before a promise to your sons. Remember us? Seth, child of your loins—okay, just forget I said 'loins'—and Ryan, child of . . . All right, never mind the 'child of' part. But dinner? Family time tonight? Julie can take care of everything? Ringing any bells there, Mom?"

"Sweetie, I know. But I can be back in thirty minutes--" Seth planted his hands on his hips and Kirsten sighed. "All right," she conceded. "I'll let Julie handle the problem . . . But I want my phone back. Now."

Reluctantly, Seth retrieved the phone and dropped it into his mother's outstretched palm. "So," she prompted, "where are your father and Ryan?"

"An excellent question. Dad's in his office, I think. And Ryan must be in the poolhouse. I'll just go round them up before the food gets here." Halfway out the French doors, Seth paused to command, "Do not go anywhere while I'm gone." He popped his head back in, adding sternly, "And don't call Julie back. Or touch anything!"

With a placating smile, Kirsten took a seat at the counter and folded her hands.

Sandy entered the kitchen in time to see Seth sprint across the patio. "What's up with our son, sweetheart?"

Kirsten shrugged wryly. "He's Seth."

"Ah, right." Sandy wagged his eyebrows. "Enough said." Spreading the papers he carried across the counter, he turned to switch on the coffeemaker.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Kirsten warned.

"What? Why?"

Inclining her head, Kirsten gestured toward the table. "Dinner with the boys," she reminded him. "And trust me, you don't want to hear the lecture if Seth finds you working."

"Damn!" Sandy groaned. "I'd forgotten. A fax I've been waiting for all day just arrived. I was going to grab a bagel and coffee and eat in my office. You really think the boys would mind if we postponed?"

"Seth already set the table."

Sandy frowned skeptically. "Seth did? Not Ryan?"

"Seth did," Kirsten confirmed. "You might as well surrender, Mr. Cohen. You know it's a special occasion if Seth is voluntarily doing any of the work."

Blowing out a defeated breath, Sandy gathered his papers and tapped them back into the folder. "A special occasion or a sign of the apocalypse, one or the other," he observed. "Do you suppose--"

He broke off as Seth bolted back into the kitchen. At the sight of his father he skidded to a stop, holding up an adamant index finger. "Dad. Good. Stay," he panted before racing in the direction of the front door.

Kirsten and Sandy exchanged puzzled looks, but a moment later Seth returned, scowling impatiently. "Okay, Ryan's not in the poolhouse and the Rover's not in the driveway," he reported. "Did he call either one of you to say he'd be late?"

"Sweetie, Ryan's not late," Kirsten objected mildly. "Didn't you boys say that we'd eat at seven-thirty? It's only seven-fifteen. The food's not even here."

Seth shook his head in reproach. "The guy lives with us for almost three years," he muttered. "I'd think you would know a few things about him by now, Mom. Ryan's not early, which means he's late. This? Does not bode well." Grabbing the kitchen phone, he punched in Ryan's number. "Voicemail," he hissed before leaving his message. "Ryan! Tick-tock, dude. Home. Now. We're waiting!"

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"Damn. How the hell did I transpose those figures?" Matt muttered glumly. "If you hadn't noticed this, Ryan . . . shit, we would have looked like world-class idiots submitting the proposal this way."

Ryan grabbed his jacket and stood up, already reaching for his car keys. "You'll be able to fix it though, right?"

"I just have to adjust the specs and revise the graph. Soon as I get a couple more cups of coffee in me, I'll head back to the office and take care of it." Matt grinned contritely. "Don't worry, Ryan. Your work here is done—well, yours and part of mine. Go on home. Enjoy your weekend."

Nodding, Ryan headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "You sure you don't want me to drop you off?"

"Thanks. But my car is here. Besides, you've already gone above and beyond tonight. Go, before Sandy sends out the search dogs." Matt ushered Ryan down the hall, calling after him as he turned toward the exit. "And Ryan, I won't forget this, I promise."

Reassured, Ryan twirled his key chain as he crossed the parking lot. At the most, he shouldn't be more than twenty minutes late. He debated calling Seth, but decided to wait until he was stopped at a traffic light, when street sounds seeping through an open window might validate his excuse that he was caught in traffic.

Just as he pressed the button to unlock the Rover, Ryan glimpsed a flurry of movement behind the building. He paused, peering through the shadows.

"Stop it!" a woman cried. "Get your hands off me!" Her voice, faintly familiar, throbbed with panic.

"Come on, baby. You know you want it," a man wheedled. "I've seen the way you look at me--"

"No! Let go of me!"

Before their words fully registered, Ryan charged toward the commotion. Dimly, he could make out a woman struggling in the grasp of a large, dark-haired man. The robe the woman was wearing swung open, revealing a flash of leg and the leopard print of a skimpy cave girl outfit.

Sipowicz, Ryan thought. Or, what had she said her name was? Chelsea? And the guy pawing her was definitely Colston, the one he had seen dragged out of her dressing room.

Yelling a warning, Ryan sped up. In one movement, he grabbed the man by the shoulders and spun him around, shoving him backwards into the wire fence.

"She said to let her go," Ryan snapped. He slipped in front of Chelsea, using his body to shield hers.

Colston stood unsteadily, rubbing his jaw. "This doesn't concern you," he warned as he edged closer. "Little Chelsea and me got some unfinished business."

Chelsea's fingers hooked through Ryan's belt loops and she pressed against his back, whimpering softly.

"Yeah, I don't think so," he countered. "I saw the bouncer throw your ass out. Looks to me like you don't have any business here at all." The man glared, but Ryan crossed his arms, standing his ground. "Leave. Now," he ordered.

"Goddamn punkass," Colston muttered. He spat in Ryan's direction, but he began to retreat.

Ryan loosed Chelsea's hold as he turned to face her. "Are you okay?" he asked, gently pulling her robe over her shoulders. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No. I don't think so. I just stepped out for a smoke and he grabbed me. But it's like he's stalking me or--" Chelsea gasped suddenly and yanked Ryan sideways, her nails raking his arm. "Look out!"

A split second later something hit the side of Ryan's head. Instinctively he pivoted, so he avoided the worst of the blow, but it still knocked him to the ground. Something crunched underneath him as he fell. Ignoring the sound, Ryan sprang back to his feet. He charged Colston again, sending them both sprawling.

As he struggled for leverage, Ryan could hear Chelsea screaming for help and the man's garbled threats. "You sonofabitch! I'll teach you to get between me and my woman--"

"What the fuck's going on? Chelsea!" someone shouted.

Ryan was quicker, but his opponent outweighed him. With a sudden lunge, Colston pinned him to the ground, an elbow pressed into his throat, cutting off his air. His vision blurring, Ryan tried to cram a knee into the man's stomach and twist away, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't muster the strength.

Suddenly Colston flew backwards, propelled by two powerful fists.

"What does it take for you to get the message, you fucker?" Jerry growled. He hauled Chelsea's attacker off Ryan, using a hammerlock to restrain him. "Thought I told you to get the hell out of here--"

Dizzily, Ryan pushed himself to his elbows. Chelsea knelt next to him. "Oh God," she whispered, placing a supportive palm on his back and clutching his hand. "Are you okay?"

Ryan dipped his head. "Yeah. You?" he panted.

"Uh-huh. Thanks to you."

Chelsea wrapped her arms around Ryan's waist as he struggled to his feet. He swayed for a moment and she tightened her grip. "Jerry, I just . . . I want to go home, all right?" Her voice wavered, reedy with fear. "Could you tell Mr. Russo what happened, let him know I'm not going to finish my shift?"

"No problem, Chelsea. Tell you what, you wait here and I'll send someone out with your things." His arms still locked around Colston, Jerry jerked his chin at Ryan. "You sure you're all right, kid?"

Rubbing the base of his throat, Ryan nodded grimly.

"You mind staying with Chelsea until she leaves?"

"No problem."

"Jerry--" Chelsea called as he strode away, dragging Colston with him. "When you let him go, I'm afraid . . . he could follow me."

Laughing derisively, Jerry yanked Colston's arm up until he grunted with pain. "This sonofabitch? Not a chance, babe. He goes nowhere until you're out of here."

"He attacked her. You could call the cops," Ryan suggested. "Have him arrested."

Jerry scowled, shaking his head. "Bad for business. We handle fucking losers like this all the time. Appreciate your help with this one, though." He grinned over his shoulder as he marched Colston toward the club. "Got yourself a real hero, huh, babe?"

With a feral snarl, Colston twisted in Jerry's arms. He managed to glare a silent threat at Ryan before being hauled through the club's back door.

"You really were, you know," Chelsea murmured. Smiling tremulously, she looked up at Ryan.

He blinked, puzzled. "What?"

"A hero. That guy--" A convulsive shudder wracked Chelsea's body. "God, I was so afraid . . ."

Slipping off his jacket, Ryan draped it over her shoulders. She made small mewing sound as she huddled into its folds. "Thanks," she whispered, leaning into him and starting to cup his neck. Immediately, she recoiled, looking at her fingers in horror. "You are hurt!" she cried. "You're bleeding."

"That? It's nothing," Ryan claimed. He swiped an indifferent hand across the cut behind his ear and turned to scan the parking lot. "Where's your car?"

Chelsea gestured uncertainly. "Over there. But Ryan . . ." Biting her lip, she touched his neck again.

"It's okay," he assured her. "Doesn't even hurt." Wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders, he escorted her toward the blue Honda as another girl emerged from the club.

"Chelsea?" she called, waving the purse and tote bag she was carrying. "I've got your stuff."

"Oh, Tanya, thanks."

"It was that guy again, wasn't it?" Tanya asked sympathetically. "What was his name—Colston? The octopus that was slobbering all over you yesterday?"

Chelsea nodded, grimacing.

"Well, don't worry. Jerry's got everything under control. You just go home and relax. Mr. Russo said you could take tomorrow off too . . . Listen, Jerry wanted me to ask, you sure you're okay to drive yourself? 'Cause he could call a cab--"

"No," Chelsea answered hesitantly. "Um . . . no, I need my car. And it's only a couple miles anyway." Taking her purse from Tanya, she fumbled inside for her keys. They swung from her fingers, jangling against each other.

"Yeah, I know, but . . ."

Ryan studied Chelsea's shuttered face, her unsteady hands. "I'll drive you home," he announced abruptly.

"You will?" Relieved, Chelsea caught her breath, but her grateful smile faltered almost at once. "But what about your car, Ryan? And your neck, you should take care of that--"

"I'm fine," Ryan insisted. "You said it's only a couple of miles to your place, right? I can come back for my car. Tanya, tell Jerry that I'll make sure Chelsea gets home safe, okay?"

"Sure." Tanya hugged Chelsea. "You take care, girl." She turned to go before spinning back and giving Ryan a quick, fervent kiss on the cheek. "Nice to know there are good guys in the world."

"You are wonderful, Ryan," Chelsea agreed as he unlocked her car and settled her in the passenger seat. "I don't know how to thank you."

Ryan dismissed the comment with a shrug and a crooked grin. "Chelsea, my cell phone. It's in my jacket pocket, right side. Could you dig it out?" he asked. "I better call home, let them know I'll be late.

"Got it. Oh, shit, Ryan!"

"What?"

Chelsea held up the phone. Even in the dim light, Ryan could see deep cracks splintering the plastic. "It's broken," she reported. "Must have happened when you were fighting with Colston. Wait, let me check . . . Yeah, nothing. Ryan, I'm so sorry."

Recalling the sound of something shattering when he fell, Ryan groaned softly. "Not your fault. Could I borrow yours?"

"Of course." Chelsea rooted through her purse, then through the bag Tanya had brought her. "Damn!" she exclaimed. "It's not here. It must still be on my dressing table . . ."

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Ryan glanced helplessly back at the club. "Shit," he sighed under his breath.

"You want to go inside and call?" Chelsea offered. "I could wait here." She lifted her chin resolutely, but Ryan heard the whisper of fear in her voice.

"Thanks. But let's just get you home," he replied. Crossing to the driver's side, he swung himself into the car, adjusting the seat for his longer legs. As he put the key into the ignition, Chelsea covered his hand with hers.

"It won't be a problem, will it?" she asked anxiously. "You not calling, I mean?"

"No." Ryan paused, picturing the Cohens at home waiting for him. "Well, yeah, it will be, I suppose," he amended. He gave Chelsea's fingers a reassuring squeeze and started the car. "But don't worry about it. I'll just explain everything later, that's all. And hey, I didn't want dessert tonight anyway."

TBC


	3. Part 3: Dinner Delayed

**Knight-Errant Part 3: Dinner Delayed**

Sandy stole a covert peek at his watch and glanced at Kirsten. Although her face appeared composed, her hands, half-hidden on her lap, shredded a petal plucked from the lily in front of her plate. When she finished, she reached mechanically for the next one. Across the table Seth surveyed the take-out cartons that he had lined up in order of descending size. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he started doodling on the one nearest him. Sandy watched for a few minutes as a single cartoon panel materialized. The Ironist, scowling with accusation, held a plate of noodles poised to pour over a sheepishly shrugging Kid Chino's head.

His lips twitching, Sandy exhaled a sound that was part amusement, part exasperation. "Tell you what son," he suggested. "Why don't you call me when Ryan gets here? I'll just be in my office--"

"What?" Jerking his head up, Seth aimed his pen at his father. "No, no, and no! Dinner is going to be served in five minutes! Ten at the most! Whether the late—I mean, the tardy—Mr. Atwood is present or not. But he will be. And nobody is leaving this kitchen."

At the sound of their voices, Kirsten roused. "Seth, honey," she sighed. "It's obvious that Ryan forgot about dinner, so why don't we try this tomorrow night instead?" She got up to dispose of the denuded flower. Pausing at the garbage disposal, she frowned thoughtfully. "Or wait—tomorrow's no good. We have our cocktail party at the country club for NewMatch. Maybe Sunday?"

"Not Sunday, sweetheart. Matt and I are playing golf with some potential new clients."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot. Well, next week--"

"Whoa! Stop! Just, both of you, freeze! Did you not hear the 'nos', Mom? Dad?" Seth demanded. "Tonight! We're all having dinner tonight according to the carefully crafted Seth Cohen master plan. And Ryan did not forget. It's just, you know, he's lived here long enough to pick up some Newpsie habits. So he's fashionably late. Really, really, annoyingly, fashionably late. But he'll be here." Glowering at his drawing, Seth added steam curling out of The Ironist's ears. "You better be here, dude," he mumbled.

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Ryan's eyes, shadowed with concern, flickered from the traffic light over to Chelsea as he eased to a stop. "Hey," he prompted quietly. "How are you doing? Are you all right?"

From within the recesses of his jacket where she was nestled, Chelsea offered a wan smile. "You've asked me that at least four times, Ryan."

One side of his mouth lifted in an abashed grin. "Sorry," he said. "I guess I have."

"Oh, don't apologize. It's kind of sweet. Just not necessary. You stopped Colston before he could do more than scare me." Chelsea pulled her hand out of the pocket of Ryan's jacket and stroked his forearm. "I still can't believe that you took him on that way," she observed. Her voice swirled with a strange undercurrent, wonder and worry combined. Ryan shook his head slightly, confused. "You needed help, Chelsea. Anybody else would have done the same thing." "No, they wouldn't," she argued. Her nails traced lazy patterns down to Ryan's wrist, lightly grazing his skin. He glanced down, catching his breath, and then snapped his gaze back to the traffic light. It was still red. 

"I didn't do it—for that," he murmured, the words hoarse and unsteady.

Embarrassed, Chelsea snatched her hand away, wrapping it around a fold of Ryan's jacket. "No, I know," she stammered. "I didn't mean . . . It's just that you were so wonderful. And you don't even know me, really . . ." She tossed her hair, consciously reclaiming some of her pert bravado. "Do you do that a lot, ace?"

"Do . . . what?"

Chelsea's tone was impish, but her eyes fixed on Ryan's profile intently. "Rescue damsels in distress?"

"Not really. No." Ryan stole a quick glance at Chelsea, saw her skeptical squint and shifted uncomfortably. "Come on," he protested. "You're making too much out of this." "I don't think so," Chelsea maintained. Her shoulders lifted in a diffident shrug. "Most other guys, if they had come out of the club and seen what you did, they would have turned right around to get help. Or maybe just called the cops—I mean, if they bothered to get involved at all. They wouldn't have put themselves on the line." At the sight of Ryan's bemused expression, she chuckled softly. "That never even occurred to you, did it?" 

The light changed, and Ryan shifted gears, pulling through the intersection. "No," he admitted. He took a deep breath, his mouth crimping ironically. "It's official. I'm an idiot."

"Ryan! That's not what I meant." Dropping her hand to his thigh, Chelsea tapped it for emphasis. "You are definitely not an idiot."

"Yeah, that's open for debate. In case you didn't notice, I was losing that fight. If you hadn't yelled for Jerry--"

She winced, her fingers tightening on Ryan's knee before she released him. "Colston could have killed you. I know. I mean, I like to think that I would have done something—hit him with my shoe maybe, to get him off you—but I was so scared all I could do was scream."

Glancing down at Chelsea's stilettos, Ryan raised his eyebrows and grinned. "If you'd gotten him with one of those heels, the guy would have suffered some serious damage. He's lucky you just sicced Jerry on him."

"And I'm lucky that you came out when you did. But Ryan . . ." Her brows lowered pensively, Chelsea fiddled with an errant curl. "You know, you really shouldn't do that again."

"What?" Ryan teased. "Walk into a parking lot?"

"No, silly. What I mean--" She interrupted her explanation to provide directions. "Oh, that's my building up ahead, Ryan. The yellow stucco one with the little courtyard. My parking space is the third one on the right."

Ryan pulled into the space and cut the engine. Beside him, Chelsea fumbled underneath the folds of his jacket, trying to find the seatbelt release. "Let me," he offered. He pressed the catch and eased the strap off her body. "Are you going to be okay here tonight?"

"That makes number six," she laughed, dimpling.

"Number—oh." Ryan flushed. "Right. I keep asking the same question. But are you?"

Glancing up at the second floor, Chelsea nodded. "The lights are on in my apartment, so my roommate is home," she observed. "I'll be fine, Ryan." She crossed her heart, then kissed her fingertips and touched them to his lips. "I won't even be alone. You don't have to worry about me, honest."

"Okay. Good." Ryan slid out of the car and crossed to open the passenger door. "About Colston, though . . ." he said as Chelsea stepped out.

She stiffened, her eyes narrowing at the sound of her attacker's name. "What about him?"

"Just . . . I know a great lawyer. He could help, if the guy gives you any more trouble—get a restraining order against him or something."

"Oh." Her lips pursed thoughtfully, Chelsea studied Ryan's face. After a moment, she dug through her bag for a scrap of paper and something to write with. "Okay," she agreed, tapping an eyeliner pencil against her cheek. "Tell you what, ace. I'll take the lawyer's number if you'll take some advice." Holding out the paper and pencil, she tossed her hair back, her eyes bright with challenge.

Ryan cocked his head, frowning dubiously. "What advice?" he asked as he jotted down Sandy's name and number.

A light wind ruffled Chelsea's robe and she cinched it tighter before taking his hand, the scrap of paper clasped between them. "Okay, I don't want to sound like I'm not grateful, because I really, really am. But Ryan, I've been thinking." With one finger, she traced a line from his eyebrow down to his chin. "You shouldn't rush into dangerous situations the way you did with Colston . . . No, now listen to me," she insisted, when Ryan started to object. "It terrifies me to imagine what might have happened if you weren't there tonight . . . But . . . I'm just saying, next time maybe you should think about getting help, ace." Slipping off his jacket, Chelsea settled it over Ryan's shoulders. She bit her lip, her playful tone belying her pleading expression. "You know . . . like bring in the cavalry, maybe."

His fist closing around her car keys, Ryan studied the cracked asphalt. "You sound like . . ."

"Like what?" Chelsea swatted his arm. "And don't you dare say your mother!"

"No," Ryan replied flatly. "Not like my mother at all."

"Who then?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter." The nonchalant smile he attempted faded before it reached his eyes. Another breeze tousled his short bangs and whipped the sash of Chelsea's robe against his legs. "Anyway, you should be getting inside. It's chilly out here--"

"You mean when you're dressed in pretty much your underwear and nothing else?" Chelsea wrinkled her nose, glancing down at the edge of her leopard-skin bra. "Yeah, it is. But Ryan—you're not mad at me, are you?"

"Um . . . No." With obvious reluctance, Ryan lifted his gaze from her cleavage. "Definitely not mad."

"Good," Chelsea whispered. She reached up, brushed his hair back, then impulsively kissed him, gliding her tongue along his lower lip as she moved away.

Ryan swallowed hard. "I . . . um, I better get going. Got to . . . the car . . . get home." Vaguely, he gestured in the direction of the club.

"Yes, you better," Chelsea agreed. "But if you're ever interested, ace, I would like to thank you. Maybe make you dinner? I'm actually a pretty good cook. Pasta? Homemade sauce? Just a little bit spicy? What do you think?"

"Sounds . . . delicious."

"Well then, just call the club when you're hungry. Ask for Chelsea. Any time."

With a crooked grin, Ryan nodded, thrusting her car keys into Chelsea's hand as he walked her to the apartment entrance. He waited until she had unlocked the security door before he murmured goodnight and turned to go.

"Ryan!" Halfway down the sidewalk, Ryan paused, looking back curiously.

"You take care of yourself," Chelsea warned. Her stern schoolteacher voice contrasted incongruously with the bone-shape hairclip she shook at him. "I mean it! And call me!"

Ryan laughed, pivoting to wave a promise before he set off on a jog down the street. He was seven blocks away, waiting to cross an intersection, before he flinched, the realization striking him suddenly: he had meant to ask Chelsea if he could use her apartment phone to call Seth.

Checking his watch, Ryan groaned and then sprinted across the street, ignoring horns that blared in protest. By the time he got home, he would be facing more serious consequences than just missing dessert. And while he might tell Seth the truth—privately, in the poolhouse—Ryan had absolutely no idea how he would explain his tardiness to Kirsten and Sandy.

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Seth slouched in his chair at the silent dinner table, staring at a pool of congealed sauce next to his noodles. His chopsticks, unused, hovered above his plate. Glumly, he twirled them between his fingers, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they began to blur and he arced them over to beat a tattoo against his water glass. The tempo matched that of his jittering knees.

Across from him, Kirsten winced at the sound. She said nothing, but Sandy placed a remonstrative hand on Seth's wrist, halting his movement. "Son," he warned softly. Seth's gaze darted to his father's face. Recognizing an earnest plea there, he slumped further down in his seat. For about a minute he managed to sit still. Then he picked up his chopsticks again. With furious concentration, he marched them across his plate, jumped them over some dumplings, flicked them high in the air and finally let them fall. Thick drops of peanut sauce spattered onto his placemat. 

"Okay," he declared flatly. "Anybody else getting a sense of déjà vu here? Been there, done that, totally didn't want to do it again? Maybe we should contact the docks, see if any fishing boats have shipped out this evening."

"Seth!" Pushing away her untouched food, Kirsten gripped the edge of the table, the tips of her manicured nails digging into its surface. "We could do without the jokes."

"Yeah, well, not so much joking here. Mom. Ryan should have been home like, forever ago. Or at least an hour and a half."

Sandy crumpled his napkin and flung it down on the table. "I can't believe this," he muttered. "Not showing up, after you boys insisted on this dinner and your mother and I rearranged our schedules. What is going on with that boy? He promised he wouldn't do this again."

"Right." Nodding fiercely, Seth met his father's eyes. "Ryan promised. Think about that, Dad. How often does Ryan break a promise to us? Let's see, that would be . . . pretty much never. Besides he was looking forward to this. And it's not like he has any reason to bail. He hasn't been kicked out of Harbor again. Hell, he's been downright boring. No decking deans, no breaking into school records or jumping psycho students. Ryan hasn't even gotten a detention lately." Seth impaled a shrimp roll, mangling it with repeated jabs. "Hey, I was pissed when he was just twenty minutes late. But now? Something's wrong," he mumbled.

Kirsten inhaled sharply. "I'll try his cell again," she announced.

As she strode to the phone, Seth and Sandy both swiveled around, eyes intent on the doorway. They sank back in disappointment when nobody appeared.

"Yeah, see, that should have been Ryan's cue to stroll in. So much for the powers of superstition," Seth sighed.

Kirsten replaced the handset. "Still that not-in-service message," she reported uneasily. "What does that mean? Ryan's so meticulous. He wouldn't let his battery die. Seth, check your phone. See if it's working."

"It was when I tried calling him ten minutes ago," Seth muttered, but he dug his phone out, turned it on, and held up the display for his parents' inspection. "Yep. You can reach me, Mom. Only, right, you don't have to, since unlike Ryan, I'm already here. Where he should be, except, you know, in his own chair."

Sandy drummed his fingers against the stem of his glass. "It doesn't make sense," he mused. "Ryan was only supposed to work until six-thirty and nobody's answering at the office so he and Matt must have finished. Besides, if there was a problem with the proposal, I'm sure that Matt--" He broke off, his brows furrowing ominously. "Oh, he wouldn't. He wouldn't dare do something like that again."

"Who and do what now?" Seth asked.

"Matt," Sandy replied. His tone was grim. "He tends to have difficulty handling the pressure of deadlines. The first night they worked together he couldn't cope and he wound up taking Ryan to a strip club and buying him a lap dance. If he's done it again . . ."

Kirsten's "What?" of shocked disbelief bisected Seth's incredulous, protracted "Whoa!"

"Sanford Cohen! Matt bought Ryan a lap dance? Why didn't you tell me this?" Kirsten demanded. "And if that's his idea of mentoring one of our sons, why is that man still working for you?"

"I did fire him," Sandy reported before amending weakly, "But then I found out that he was having issues in his personal life, so I assumed that it was a one time mistake . . . Look, sweetheart, I'll explain everything later. Right now, I'm going to call Matt."

His eyes glazed, Seth pushed himself back from the table, rubbing his own thighs. "A lap dance," he mumbled. "And Ryan didn't even tell me about it. Where's the brotherhood? Where's the solidarity? Where's my opportunity for cheap, vicarious thrills?"

"Here's a much better question," Kirsten snapped. "Where is Ryan?"

Seth flushed. "Yeah," he conceded. "I know that, Mom. I just--"

"Decided to make an inappropriate comment. As usual," Kirsten concluded impatiently.

"No. Or, I mean, yeah, I guess I did, but not because--"

Sandy raised a palm, gesturing for quiet. Clamping his mouth shut, Seth went to stand silently beside his mother, both of them straining to make sense of the one-sided conversation.

"Matt? It's Sandy. Look, we're waiting dinner for Ryan and I wondered if you . . . No, he's not. What time did he leave the office? . . . What errand? . . . Oh. Well, do you know when he finished? . . . No, we haven't heard from him and frankly, we're getting worried . . . What did you ask him to do for you anyway?" There was a long pause. Sandy gripped the phone tighter, his expression darkening as he listened. Finally he exclaimed, "Damn it, Matt, what the hell--!"

With a hiss of alarm, Kirsten reached over to switch on the speaker.

"Listen, Sandy, I'm sorry," they heard Matt say. "I know I shouldn't have left without double-checking the proposal. But it's under control now. I'll have everything corrected and ready on time even if I have to stay up all night."

Sandy's voice grated, honing each word to a cutting edge. "I don't give a damn about the proposal, Matt. When exactly did Ryan leave the club?"

Kirsten's eyes widened with livid disbelief as Seth mouthed "The club?" and sketched the shape of a voluptuous woman in the air. Nodding tensely, Sandy raked his hand through his hair. "Matt," he repeated, "what time did he leave?"

"Shit, I'm not sure," Matt admitted. "But it was a while ago. About forty-five minutes, I think. Maybe he just stopped off someplace, Sandy. Have you tried Marissa?"

"He's not with Marissa. I want the truth, Matt. Did you ask Ryan to do anything else . . . go back to the office or pick up something for you?"

"Of course not. This proposal is my responsibility, Sandy. I know that."

"Right." Sandy retorted. "That's why Ryan had to find your mistake and why you were at a strip club when he wanted to discuss it with you."

"Look, I understand that you're upset with me right now, and it's completely justified, but I swear--"

Sandy slammed a palm flat on the counter. The sound shot through the room and across the wire, stunning Matt into silence. "Save the excuses. Just tell me, did Ryan say anything to suggest where he might be now?"

"Nothing. Just that he was in a hurry to get going. I walked him part of the way out and I could barely keep up . . ."

"God," Sandy murmured, almost inaudibly. He covered his eyes with one hand, fingers rubbing his temples. "If Ryan left the club almost an hour ago, why the hell isn't he home yet?"

Instinctively, the Cohens moved closer together. Kirsten clutched Sandy's arm, and Seth wedged himself between his mother and the kitchen counter. In the moment of wordless tension that ensued, they could hear Matt clear his throat. "Um, Sandy," he ventured hesitantly. "Was Ryan driving the Range Rover tonight?"

"Yes." Sandy's lips tightened with suspicion. "Why?"

"It's just . . . now that I think about it, I remember seeing a car in the parking lot when I left. It . . . well it looked just like yours, Sandy. But it didn't occur to me at the time that--"

"Holy shit," Seth mumbled at the same time that his father exclaimed, "What? You mean Ryan is still there?"

"I don't know," Matt stammered. "He could be. I went out the back exit, so I didn't see who was in the lounge. But Ryan seemed so eager to get home. I never expected him to hang around . . . Tell you what, I could go back and check, see if he's there. Would you like me to do that?"

"Oh, I think you've done enough already, Matt."

"Really, Sandy, anything I can do to help, just say the word--"

Without bothering to reply, Sandy hung up the phone, scrubbing a palm across his face. "Damn it, Ryan," he muttered.

"Dad?" Seth prompted. "Mom and I missed some of that. Matt . . . Ryan . . . strip club? Maybe you can fill in the blanks?"

"Ryan found a mistake in a proposal they were working on," Sandy reported curtly. "But Matt had already left for the day. He was at the club, and he had been drinking, so he asked Ryan to bring the file there. Matt assumed he left when they finished discussing the problem but—well, you heard the rest."

"Right. Rover in the parking lot. So Ryan possibly underneath a lap dancer again."

Kirsten rounded on him, her eyes blazing. "Seth!"

"Sorry." Seth hunched his shoulders, shuffling in place. "But hey, better that than some of the other options, right?"

A shadow crossed Kirsten's face. "Sandy?" she asked uncertainly. "Do you think Ryan really might be there now?"

"You mean do I think his hormones distracted him enough to make him forget about dinner?" Sandy countered. "It's certainly possible. But if he did--"

"Well, in Ryan's defense--" Seth interjected. His parents wheeled around, and he rushed to backpedal. "Not that I'm defending him, because that would be stupid and/or dangerous, and I'm totally pissed—angry—that he's ruining the Seth Cohen master plan. But just hypothetically . . . I mean, if I were to defend him . . . Hey, the guy's lived practically like a monk in Newport, and after the girls he had in Chino—which is TMI, and if you value my life, you'll never tell Ryan that I mentioned it–-But come on! He's at a strip club! What red-blooded guy wouldn't linger a while, maybe look around . . ."

The heat of his parents' combined glares melted Seth's bravado. "Well, of course, I wouldn't," he amended weakly. "But maybe we can't . . . altogether . . . entirely . . . blame Ryan if he did?" With an apologetic grin, he dropped down on a kitchen stool. "It's just a thought . . ."

Ignoring Seth's sputtering explanation, Sandy grabbed his jacket and dug out his car keys.

"What are you going to do?" Kirsten asked.

"Go down and drag the kid out of there."

"Then I'm going with you."

"Sweetheart," Sandy protested, "I don't think--"

"I'm going," she insisted. "We don't know what he's been doing tonight. If Ryan's been drinking, we don't want him behind the wheel. One of us should be there to drive him home."

Sandy nodded, his eyes flinty. "Fine," he agreed shortly. "Seth, if we miss Ryan and he gets home while we're gone, tell him I expect to see him sitting right here when I walk in the door. Is that clear?"

"Sit. Stay. Got it," Seth confirmed. He snatched the nearest container and started scribbling on one side.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing a note. Which I will put right in the middle of the table on top of a pyramid of cartons so that Ryan is bound to see it. I'm going with you guys."

"Oh no you're not, young man," Kirsten objected. "There's no reason for you to come. If you think you can use this as an excuse to slip into a strip club--"

Rolling his eyes, Seth heaved a patronizing sigh. "Please, Mom. If I wanted to do that, I wouldn't go with my parents. And hey, at least this time Aunt Hailey won't be working the pole." His mother stiffened and he winced, withering instantly under her cold scrutiny. "Right. Sorry. Another inappropriate comment. Also, so not the point."

Jangling the car keys impatiently, Sandy snapped, "What is your point? We don't have time for this, Seth."

"My point is, we were supposed to spend the evening as a family tonight. All four of us. So if you're going to pick up Ryan, I should go with." Seth bobbed his head earnestly, agreeing with himself.

"But what if he comes home while we're gone?" Kirsten argued.

Seth shrugged. "So? Then Ryan has to wait for us. Wait and worry, and may I add, anticipate our righteous fury. Poetic justice, guys." Striding to the door, he glanced over his shoulder. "Well?" he urged. "Are you two coming or what?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Let me make sure you understand me this time, fucker," Jerry growled as he shoved Colston out the back exit. "Stay the hell away from this club. You come here again, I'll tattoo the message on your shit-ugly face. Got it?" With a final jab to the ribs he sent the other man sprawling and slammed the door.

Furiously, Colston hauled himself upright. Brushing bits of gravel from his knees, he peered around the deserted parking lot. The conversation he had overheard inside replayed in his mind.

"_He's driving her home? Damn, guess I was right when I said she had found herself a hero. Chelsea must be relieved. I've never seen her so shook. Hey, Tonya, what about her car though?"_

"_They took her car. Ryan said he'd come back for his."_

"_Yeah, I bet he will. I saw the kid pull in. Got himself one sweet ride. Shit, those Range Rovers run, what, around eighty g's?"_

Colston's eyes narrowed as he reached into his back pocket. He flicked open the knife he found there, smiling with grim satisfaction when it locked into place with a precise, warning snick. His expression speculative, he hefted the weapon, bouncing it on his open palm. The blade glinted when it moved and Colston smirked, admiring its conspiratorial wink as it sliced through a thin shaft of light.

"Fucking sonofabitch rich boy," he sneered.

Then, idly picking his teeth with the knife's point, he crossed the parking lot.

TBC


	4. Part 4: Road Trip

Knight-Errant, Part 4: Road Trip 

"No, Seth. Absolutely not."

"But Mom . . ." Plastering on his most winsome 'Please, Mommy?' face, Seth grasped the back of his mother's seat and propped his chin on his knuckles. "We're supposed to be doing things as a family tonight."

Kirsten swiveled around. "No," she repeated, brushing his hands away. "There is no reason why you should go into that club. Your father can get Ryan by himself. You will stay right here in the car with me."

For a few minutes, Seth was stymied. He sulked through one traffic light and two more intersections. Then his eyes glimmered with invention. Discarding his patented wheedle-approach, he assumed an expression of sage gravity. "Yeah, but see, you're not considering the educational value of this experience, Mom."

"Seth, the subject is closed."

"No, but wait," he insisted. "Seriously, me going with dad would be like taking a field trip. Supervised and everything. Think of the sociology paper that I could write: 'Strippers: Oppressed and Exploited, or Taking Back the Night?'"

His lips crimping with suppressed amusement, Sandy darted a fleeting glance over his shoulder. "That's not a sociology paper. That's an episode of Maury Povich. Besides which, I don't seem to recall sociology on your class schedule, son."

"Well, no, not right now," Seth conceded. His disingenuous smile flashed between his parents. "But I'll probably take a course in college, and this way I can have one project already done. With primary sources, even. Hmm . . . Okay, I don't suppose we'll be inside long enough for me to interview any strippers tonight, but I bet Aunt Hailey can hook me up with a few of her coworkers--"

"Seth Ezekiel!"

"Oops, sorry, Mom." Abashed, Seth shook his head, cringing. "'Hook up'? Yeah, so not the right phrase. And ex-coworkers would be more accurate too. I mean . . . it would, wouldn't it? What exactly is Aunt Hailey doing these days anyway?"

Kirsten didn't reply, but at the sight of her icy profile slowly turning in his direction Seth huddled against the door, as far out of reach as possible.

"You're just digging the hole deeper there, son," Sandy chuckled.

"Don't encourage him, Sandy," Kirsten snapped. "This is not funny."

From his corner, Seth inched a hand into the air, requesting permission to speak. "Um, actually, Mom? It kind of is." His mother opened her mouth to object, but he barreled on, forestalling her. "Hey, I admit, I was worried when Ryan didn't show up for dinner and we had no clue where he was. Well, first angry, then worried. But now? Finding out that the estimable Mr. Atwood has embraced his inner Kid Chino--well, embraced something anyway—I've got to say, I am enjoying this turn of events. And the prospect of watching Ryan try to explain what he's been doing?" Sighing with happy anticipation, Seth leaned back and grinned. "Now _that_ will be entertainment. We don't even need **_King Kong_** tonight."

Exasperated, Kirsten turned to Sandy for reinforcement. He shrugged, his eyebrows climbing.

"Don't tell me you agree with him, Sandy!"

"Sweetheart, come on," he coaxed. "I'm not saying that Seth is right. And I'm certainly not saying that Ryan won't have to answer for this little escapade. But frankly, it's preferable to most of the things that might have made him miss dinner. At least if he's at the strip club, it means that he's all right."

"Yeah," Seth sighed. With his index finger, he sketched a well-endowed woman on the back of the passenger seat. "By now, I'm guessing probably more than all right."

Oblivious to her son's comment, Kirsten frowned into the thickening dusk outside. "I don't know," she murmured. "This bothers me, Sandy. It isn't like Ryan to be so irresponsible and . . . well, thoughtless."

Seth leaned forward eagerly. "Now, see, I felt that way too," he declared before his father had a chance to reply. "But I've been thinking about it and you know? I realized that hanging out at a strip club is really part of the Ryan Atwood persona. He's just been repressing that side of himself. The dude's actually . . . well, he's actually a lot like Ben Franklin."

Sandy whipped around to stare at Seth before he turned his attention back to the road. "Benjamin Franklin?" he echoed incredulously.

"What? You don't see it? Well, no, you wouldn't see it, exactly, since Ryan and Old Ben? Not obvious switched at birth candidates. I mean, no physical resemblance, and Ryan's not so much with the words, so they don't have that in common."

"So far, you're not making much of a case, son."

"No, but think about their similarities, guys: There's B.F., all humble beginnings and hardworking, really smart, conscientious, concerned about other people. Just like R.A. But also, ahhh, also—let us not forget Paris. Old Ben, he did love the ladies. Frequently, as it were. You know, as he once said, 'The used key is always bright.'" Seth beamed, impressed with his own insight. "I believe I've proved my case, thank you very much."

Kirsten's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly does that saying have to do with Ryan's conduct tonight?"

"Oh. Okay, contemporary translation, Mom: use it or lose it." Rapt in his own theory, Seth didn't notice his father's cautionary glance. Blithely, he continued, "I figure, considering his relationship with Marissa—which pretty much hasn't involved any relating for weeks—Ryan might be afraid his Chino skills will atrophy if he doesn't . . . he doesn't . . ." Abruptly aware of what he was implying, Seth scooted back against the door. "Um, does anybody else find it stuffy in here? Just me, then? Okay, well, I think I'll open a window and, you know, concentrate on breathing for a while."

"Good idea, son," Sandy observed dryly as he signaled a left turn.

With a withering glance back at Seth, Kirsten pulled her cell phone from her purse. "I'm calling the house," she announced. "Just in case Ryan is already home and waiting for us."

She was about to press the speed dial when Sandy's phone rang.

"Get it for me sweetheart," he urged, indicating his jacket pocket. "And if it's Ryan, tell the kid I can hardly wait to hear all about his evening."

Kirsten checked the display. Disappointed, she sighed wearily. "It's not Ryan. It's Matt."

Sandy groaned, his brows furrowing. "Would you put it on speaker, please?" As soon as Kirsten flipped the switch, he warned brusquely, "What is it, Matt? If this is about the proposal--"

"It's not. Look, Sandy, it bothered me—Ryan hanging around at the club, missing dinner when he knew you were expecting him--"

"Really?" Sandy retorted. "Imagine how we feel about it."

"I know. And I know this whole situation is my fault since I dragged Ryan there in the first place."

"And also the second place," Seth amended, softly enough so that Matt didn't hear.

"So I decided to call Len Russo. The manager. He's a—" Clearing his throat, Matt confessed with obvious reluctance, "Well, I suppose you could say that he's a friend of mine. I asked Len to check the place and let me know if Ryan was there."

In the brief pause as Matt took a breath, the word 'if' echoed, insistent and ominous.

"And?" Sandy prompted warily.

"He's not. The manager--"

"He's not?" Kirsten blurted. "But you said!" The shrill note of alarm in her voice drowned out whatever Matt was saying. "If our car is still in the parking lot--"

"Oh shit," Seth breathed. Instinctively, he inched as close to the front seat as his seat belt would allow.

His fingers strangling the steering wheel, Sandy pulled over and cut the engine. He swallowed hard before he spoke, compelling himself to remain calm. "Matt, did you ask the manager to check the parking lot? Is the car gone? Or wasn't it ours in the first place?"

"No, it's yours. And it's still there."

Kirsten's right hand flew to her mouth, stifling an inarticulate moan. With the other she reached for Sandy. Automatically lacing their fingers together, he forced words out between his teeth. "Then where the hell is Ryan?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. Listen Sandy, apparently some Neanderthal has been stalking one of the . . . um, the dancers . . . and tonight he assaulted her in the club parking lot. It happened just when Ryan was leaving. He saw what was going on, and he got the man off her--"

The Cohens' questions overlapped, urgent and almost incoherent. "Was Ryan hurt?" "Why weren't we called? Matt, is Ryan okay?"

"He's fine. Honestly. Just a little bruised from what I understand. Jerry—that's the bouncer—he heard the girl screaming and broke up the fight before it got too bad. Ryan is fine," Matt repeated soothingly. "And thanks to him, the girl is too."

"Damn," Seth muttered. He expelled a sigh of rueful admiration. "Kid Chino, back in action. And I wasn't even there to see it. Where's the justice, I ask you? I miss everything."

Sandy shot a silencing look at his son. "Okay, Matt, but I still don't understand this: if our car is in the parking lot and Ryan's okay, where is he right now?" His eyes narrowed, dark with sudden suspicion. "Were the cops called? Is he being questioned? Don't tell me the guy Ryan fought is accusing him of assault."

"No, nothing like that," Matt assured them. "It's just that, well, the girl was pretty traumatized by the whole thing. Len says it shook her so much that Ryan offered to drive her home. They took her car and he said he'd get his later. In fact, by now he's probably on his way back to pick it up."

"You're sure about this?" Sandy probed, at the same time that Kirsten prompted, "Then Ryan is really all right? He's just helping this girl get home safely?"

Matt's chuckle carried a warm note of reassurance. "Yep. Just proving that chivalry's not dead in Orange County. Look, Sandy, my guess is that in all the commotion, Ryan simply forgot to call home. But he's fine. You guys can stop worrying. Relax, reheat your dinner, enjoy the rest of the evening."

"Thanks for letting us know what's going on, Matt," Sandy said earnestly. "I . . . we . . . appreciate it."

"Yeah, well, I figured it was the least I could do. Goodnight, Sandy."

There was a second of reflective silence after Kirsten switched off the phone, fractured by Seth's whistle from the backseat. "So . . . this sucks," he observed.

Both of his parents turned around, baffled.

"I mean, I feel pretty stupid here," Seth explained. "It's so obvious. Why didn't the possibility occur to any of us? Ryan's late? Also incommunicado? Well duh, Kid Chino must be busy rescuing someone. Thanks for playing, folks, but Ben Stein gets to keep all his money tonight."

Kirsten's relieved smile wavered almost instantly. "I'm just grateful that Ryan's all right," she whispered. "For a moment, when Matt said the car was still there but Ryan wasn't, all I could think was that . . ." Shivering, she pressed closer to Sandy. Her voice faded and she closed her eyes, seeking to erase the picture her fear had conjured.

Sandy rubbed his wife's shoulder soothingly before leaning over to kiss her hair. "I know," he murmured. "There's nothing worse than believing that something has happened to one of your kids . . ." With mock ferocity, he frowned at Seth over Kirsten's head. "You back there! You get the same warning I'm going to deliver to your partner in crime. No disappearing acts, got it?"

Mirroring his father's playful scowl, Seth drew himself up indignantly. "Hey!" he retorted. "For your information Dad, I? Do not disappear. All right, true, there was that little misadventure two years ago when I set sail for Tahiti and somehow wound up in Portland, but you guys always . . . sort of . . . knew where I was. Besides, I was a mere child at the time. Impulsive. Reckless. Maybe just a wee bit self-centered. I'm much more mature now. Considerate. Rational. Prudent, you might even say . . ." Suddenly breathless, Seth sputtered to a halt. "Wait. And also whoa." His hands waving aimlessly, he blinked in confusion. "Why are we talking about my past sins anyway?"

Kirsten reached back to tousle her son's hair fondly. "We weren't, sweetie. That was just you, rambling. But it's all right. We understand. Your dad and I were scared too."

"Rambling, huh? Well, yeah, I guess maybe I was. But only because extreme shifts of emotion throw me off balance and my coping mechanism is to become really talkative . . ."

"As opposed to what exactly?" Sandy teased.

"Hey, so not funny, Dad. And for your information, fathers who mock their recently terrified sons deserve a wag of the finger, ala Stephen Colbert." Assuming a supercilious expression, Seth leaned forward to demonstrate. Then he released a huge puff of air and relaxed into his seat. "Okay then. Ryan's all right. That's good. Great actually. Except . . . I suppose this means our field trip to the strip club is cancelled tonight?"

Kirsten glared in response, although her eyes were dancing.

"Yeah, I figured," Seth sighed. "So . . . what do we do now? Go home and wait for the conquering hero to return? Because I've gotta say, I wouldn't mind having dinner soon. Even reheated. Suddenly, I'm starving."

"Considering what Matt said, there doesn't seem to be any reason for us to go to the club," Kirsten mused. "Sweetheart? What do you think?"

Sandy rubbed the bridge of his nose, considering. "I think you're right," he agreed. Checking the mirrors for oncoming traffic, he put the car into gear. "Frankly, I'd feel pretty awkward showing up there now. Ryan doesn't seem to need our help, and having all of us waiting when he comes back for the car? Well, that will just embarrass the kid. So . . . home it is."

TBC


	5. Part 5: Plausible Lies

**Knight-Errant, Part 5: Plausible Lies**

Ryan had been running steadily for two and a half miles, but as he approached the strip club he could feel his sprint slow to a reluctant jog.

"Shit, Atwood, move," he hissed, but somehow he couldn't make himself accelerate. His body resisted, pushing sluggishly through the evening air as though he had climbed to some altitude that lacked oxygen.

Ashamed, Ryan admitted the truth: even though he was eager to _be_ home, he didn't quite want to get there. With a grimace, he envisioned his arrival: Sandy and Kirsten, tense and tightlipped at the dinner table, Seth slumped on his tailbone, plowing through mounds of food with chopsticks, all three of them wheeling expectantly the instant that Ryan opened the door. He flinched at the prospect of what he might see in their eyes: relief, probably, but also concern, accusation, anger, disappointment.

Each time, Ryan projected a different reaction, but no matter what expression he pictured on the Cohens' faces, his own always remained the same.

Blank.

Because what, he wondered, could he possibly say? If he admitted what really happened, it would mean betraying Matt. But what other story was even plausible?

Silently, Ryan rehearsed excuses, trying not to stray too far from the truth.

"_Seth, man, I know this is lame, but Matt and I were working on a proposal and well, suddenly it was way past dinnertime."_

"_I was on my way home when I saw some guy attacking a woman. So I helped get him away from her. She's okay, Kirsten, but by the time everything was settled, it was really late."_

"_I had to run an errand for somebody, Sandy. It was kind of an emergency and it took a lot longer than I expected."_

Nothing worked. Every explanation Ryan attempted ended the same way: with the likelihood of questions that he couldn't answer.

"_Where did this happen?" _

"_Why didn't you call?" _

"_What kind of errand?" _

"_If you were working with Matt, why didn't anybody pick up at the office?" _

Cursing under his breath, Ryan kicked a crushed beer can toward the curb. He needed Seth, he decided. Or at least his best friend's verbal agility.

Of course, Seth's lies weren't usually believable either, but they were glib and detailed and delivered with disarming sincerity. Reflexively slowing to a brisk walk, Ryan summoned Seth's reasoning, trying to imagine what his friend might say.

"_Mom, Dad, Ryan and I are really, really sorry we're late. But hey, funny story. Somehow we locked the keys and our phones in the car. What are the odds, right? I'm not quite sure how it happened, although I seem to recall something about a physics experiment. Or possibly somebody might have been a little careless. You know, tomato, tomahto. Anyway, turns out Ryan's not as good at breaking into a car as you might expect. So it took us a while to get the door open, and by that time we figured it would be better just to explain everything when we got home. So . . . here we are. Home. Explaining. And by the way, did I mention that we're really sorry we're late? And that we love you guys very, very much? Because you're so understanding. And forgiving. And generally awesome. Right, Ryan?" _

Then Seth would incline his head, smiling widely, and nudge Ryan until he nodded agreement. In response, Sandy would groan, eyebrows disappearing into his disheveled hair, and Kirsten would sigh wearily. They would take turns issuing perfunctory reprimands, and five minutes later everyone would be eating, the incident basically forgotten.

But Seth wasn't around. And alone, Ryan knew, he couldn't lie—not to Sandy and Kirsten. Not even to Seth.

Frustrated, he blew out a puff of air that ruffled his bangs.

What else could he do? He had to tell the truth, or in any case an abridged version of it.

While he waited tensely for a light to change, he rehearsed his speech: _"Sorry I'm late, guys. I was helping a friend who had some trouble and needed a ride home. My phone got broken or I would have called. I'd tell you more, but I can't share any details. I promised." _

Even to Ryan, the story sounded weak. It wasn't likely to satisfy anybody—certainly not Seth, who would hound him mercilessly for the full story—but at least, Ryan consoled himself, it wasn't a lie. Not exactly anyway.

The light changed and he stepped into the street, striding deliberately. Halfway across, he realized what he was doing and growled in disgust.

"Stop being a little bitch, Atwood," Ryan chided himself silently. "You screwed up. Or you're screwed. Either way, just suck it up. Now move—You're already too late, and the Cohens are waiting."

His jaw set resolutely, he broke into a full run.

As soon as he glimpsed the beckoning lights of the strip club, Ryan pulled out his keys. He was already pressing the unlock button when he rounded the corner into the parking lot. The place had gotten crowded, and he paused for a moment, scanning the area for any sign of Matt's car. Feeling a surge of relief when he didn't find it—at least the proposal should be done on time—he headed for the Range Rover.

From a distance, something about the vehicle looked odd. Ryan peered at it intently, but it wasn't until he reached the driver's side that he recognized the problem. The front tire was completely flat.

"Fuck!" he moaned. He crouched to inspect the damage, his eyes narrowing as he ran one finger gingerly along a tread. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"What's the matter, kid?" a voice behind him asked. "You got a problem there?"

Without turning, Ryan nodded. "Yeah," he sighed. "Nothing but problems tonight." Frowning with frustration, he started to get up. "And shit, this looks like somebody slashed--"

He never finished. One hand wrenched his arm behind his back, roughly yanking him almost off his feet. At the same time, a fist pressed against his throat so that he couldn't speak, could barely even breathe. When Ryan struggled, panting, a knife pricked almost playfully along his jaw.

"Well, you're in luck, little boy," Colston hissed. "I'll be glad to give you a ride. Tell you what though. First, you're gonna show me where Chelsea lives. You know where that is, right? After all, you. Drove. Her. Home."

The tip of the blade punctuated each of the last words, delicately piercing the skin, just enough to draw three drops of blood.

Colston bent down until his cheek mashed the hair behind Ryan's ear. His voice was pitched low, telling secrets. "Chelsea's mine. You got that, you little sonofabitch? You had no business getting between us. That's gonna cost you. Now keep your mouth shut and move." Shoving his hip against Ryan's, Colston started to propel him toward an unlit recess of the parking lot.

"Like hell I will," Ryan gritted. Resisting the force trying to drive him forward, he scanned his surroundings desperately, but at least in his limited field of vision the place appeared deserted. He didn't have breath enough to shout, but he tried anyway. "Jerry! Out here!"

Instantly, Colston tightened his grip, driving the knife just a fraction deeper. "You don't follow orders very well, do you kid?" he spat. Using his size advantage, he inched Ryan forward relentlessly. "Lemme give you some advice. Do as you're told. We don't want to keep Chelsea waiting, do we?"

"No way," Ryan gasped, the words barely audible. "No fucking way I'll take you to her."

Colston pulled Ryan's arm higher, twisting it just enough to suggest how much worse the pain could be. "No?" he whispered, almost pleasantly. "Now see, I think you just might change your mind."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So you know what I'm wondering?" Seth mused dreamily as he sketched invisible and very agile strippers on the back of the passenger seat.

Sandy chuckled. "Not a clue, son, but I'm sure you'll tell us."

"I'm wondering what excuse Ryan will manage to come up with tonight."

"What are you talking about, excuse?" Kirsten asked. "And Seth, whatever you're doing back there, would you stop it please?"

Flinching guiltily, Seth jerked his hand away and hid it under his thigh. "Mom, how did you know I was . . . um, never mind. Stopping now," he stammered.

Kirsten glanced at Sandy and they shared a silent laugh full of memories.

"Okay," Seth muttered to himself. "This is totally one of those 'be careful what you wish for' moments. I gotta remember to warn Ryan. Either the 'rents are ignoring us, or they're noticing things they can't even see."

"Hey, eyes in the back of the head are standard issue for parents, son. I thought you knew that already. Besides, the Kirsten's had your number ever since you were ten and drew Spiderman all over the backseat with magic marker." Sandy's eyebrows wagged mischievously. "You used the permanent variety too, as I recall."

"I didn't!" Seth protested. Kirsten's eyes glinted and he amended hastily, "Well, okay, yeah I did. But I was ten! You know, loving parents do not taunt their children about childhood mistakes. And besides, I don't have any markers with me tonight."

Reaching back, Kirsten gave Seth's knee an affectionate squeeze. "Never mind. We're just teasing you, sweetie. Now . . . what excuse were you talking about?"

"Excuse?" Seth echoed blankly.

"You said something about Ryan?"

"Oh, right. Ryan's excuse. AKA, the entertainment portion of the evening." His dimples dancing, Seth relaxed in his seat and released his pinioned hand. "This should be fun. 'Cause you realize he's not going to tell us the truth about what happened tonight."

"He's not?"

Seth gestured condescendingly. "Think, Mom," he urged. "Ryan doesn't know that we already know, so he won't know it's okay to let us know . . . Whoa, hold on. Feeling a little dizzy here. Who knows what now? Wait! Never mind. I got it again. Okay, here's the deal. Since Ryan doesn't realize Matt already told us the whole story, he's going to try to cover for the guy."

For a moment Sandy looked startled. His brows creased in a sharp V and he peered back at Seth. Then he nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the road. "You're probably right about that, son."

"If you mean 'probably' in the sense of 'definitely,' yes, Dad, yes I am. Ryan won't want to tell us where Matt was, which means he can't tell us where he was. So . . . no strip club. Ergo, no stripper. Ergo, no rescue of said stripper-in-distress. So hmm . . . exactly where was Ryan all this time? And what was he doing that made him so late?" Tapping his chin with one finger, Seth did his best stymied-scientist impersonation. "It's a conundrum."

"Ergo? Conundrum?" Kirsten shook her head, smiling with fond amusement. "Seth--"

"Hey, soon-to-be-college man here," Seth explained. "My vocabulary consists of more than just 'cool' and 'awesome,' thank you. Although 'awesome' really is an awesome word." A low rumble interrupted him, rising from his lap, and he cringed, shrinking into the corner.

"What was that?"

"Um . . . that would be me. Or a part of me. Don't worry, Ralph." Seth rubbed his stomach soothingly. "I'll feed you in twenty minutes . . ."

Kirsten's brows arched incredulously. "Ralph?"

"My tummy," Seth explained.

"You named your stomach?"

"Actually, I think Dad did. Back when I was like, four. It was the same time that we named my--"

"Seth Ezekiel Cohen! Stop right there, please!"

Blushing, Seth slunk as low as his seatbelt would allow. "Oops. Sorry. Total overshare. So . . . what was I saying? Oh, right, Ryan. Yeah, I can picture him now, straining to think of some story that won't get him grounded until graduation. Poor guy. It's pitiful, really. He's sort of lost without the benefit of my, um, creative imagination."

Kirsten glanced at Sandy expectantly, but he didn't respond. She frowned, faintly puzzled, before swiveling to face her son. "You mean your ability to lie to your parents," she clarified.

"Now see, Mom, you make it sound so ugly. True, I may dissemble, I may sometimes embroider the truth. . ."

"You may lie."

Seth flashed a blithe smile. "Semantics, Mom. Personally I prefer to think of it as storytelling—you know, in the grand tradition of Homer, Shakespeare, Steven Spielberg, Stan Lee. But Ryan--" Heaving a sigh, Seth bowed his head sadly. "For someone who's a great poker player, the guy has no skill when it comes to bluffing with words."

"Good," Kirsten retorted. "At least your father and I can count on one son's honesty."

"Mom, come on. Ryan's not so much truthful as he is a rotten liar." Seth paused and then amended, "Although, to give the guy his due, I don't think he ever would lie to you and Dad unless he was protecting somebody. Like for instance, Matt. So, yeah, he's probably in brood overdrive right about now . . . I'd feel sorry for the dude if, you know, Ralph wasn't starving to death on his account."

Abruptly, Sandy flipped on the right turn signal and eased into the curb lane.

"Seth, you are not starving--" Kirsten broke off in confusion when she realized that they were pulling into the driveway of an anonymous house.

"Um, Dad?" Baffled, Seth peered out the window as his father put the car in reverse and doubled back the way they had just come. "What's going on? You do know we're not heading home anymore, right?"

"Sweetheart?" Kirsten prompted, her voice stretched thin with anxiety. "Is something wrong?"

Sandy smiled reassurance. "No. I've just been thinking about everything," he explained. "You know, Ryan has had a pretty eventful evening. He's got to be exhausted. And Seth's right: he won't want to betray Matt's little secret, which means he's going to worry--"

"Brood," Seth corrected, disguising the word as a cough.

Ignoring the comment, his father continued, "About what he should tell us. There's no reason to put the kid through that. Besides, knowing Ryan, he might be more banged up than he let on. He may need somebody to drive him home. And even if not . . ." Sandy's mouth quirked in a quick, sheepish grin. "I'd feel better if he had some company."

"So . . . what? We're postponing dinner again? But I promised my stomach nourishment. Ralph is going to lose all faith in me." Arms folded, Seth sulked for a moment before realization animated his face. "Okay, wait. Suddenly not so hungry. This means the field trip is back on."

"It is not." Kirsten admonished. "Nobody needs to go into the club. We can wait for Ryan in the parking lot."

"Yeah? But what if he's been there and gone already?"

Sandy angled his head to peer at his son. "Good point," he admitted. "Keep an eye out for the Rover, Seth. If Ryan has left the club, we should pass him along the way."

"So I'm what? On sentry duty now?"

"Exactly. And good sentries concentrate on watching. They don't talk."

Kirsten shifted closer to Sandy. "I think it's a good idea—going to meet Ryan after all," she said, relief warm in her voice. "There's something about this whole situation that bothers me. You know, Sanford Cohen, you are a very smart man." Leaning over, she kissed his cheek. A trace of pink lipstick lingered on his skin and she erased it gently with her fingertips. "That's the reason why I married you."

"Really?" Sandy pretended disappointment. "Aw, and here all along I thought it was my boyish charm."

"That too. You're a triple threat."

"Hmm," he mused. Taking one hand off the wheel, Sandy tucked a strand of hair behind his wife's ear. "Intelligence, charm . . . that's only two qualities. What was the third one, Mrs. Cohen?"

Kirsten peeked at Seth, her eyes dancing, and then turned back around. "Well," she murmured seductively, "if you must know . . ."

"No! He musn't! Or I musn't!" Seth clapped his ears over his ears. "TMI, guys. Seriously, this conversation could warp me for life."

"Well, we wouldn't want that," Sandy declared. "Tell you what, honey. We can review all of my best qualities later. Privately, in our bedroom. Maybe yours too, if I've got the stamina." Grinning, he gunned the engine and sped up to get through a yellow light.

Seth dropped his head to his knees, groaning dramatically. "It's gone," he moaned. "Gone. All my innocence. Lost forever. How is this even fair? You guys won't let me go into a strip club, but you make me listen to--"

The shrill whine of a siren silenced him abruptly. He spun around, staring, as a police car wheeled out of a side street, its light pulsing crimson in the night sky. Sandy slowed to allow the cruiser to pass, but it inched closer to their bumper, still flashing its insistent warning.

"Um, Dad? I think they want us to stop." Seth tried for irony, but his tone teetered on shock. "What did you do?"

Irritated and vaguely uneasy, Sandy checked his speedometer. "I don't know, son," he said as he pulled the car to the curb and switched off the engine. Behind them, the patrol car came to a stop, and a police officer exited, clipboard in hand. Sandy rolled down his window as the man approached.

"Well, damn," Seth muttered regretfully. "How do you like this? Dad gets busted and Ryan's not even here to see it."

"Seth!" Kirsten hissed.

Chastened, Seth clamped his lips closed and mimed locking them.

"License, registration and proof of insurance," the cop intoned mechanically. His gaze swept the interior of the car, studying each occupant.

"Of course, officer." Sandy surrendered the items. "What seems to be the problem?"

Without responding, the policeman inspected all three documents, taking his time with each one. Sandy waited, tapping his watch. His impatience mounted as seconds ticked away in silence. At last the cop returned the papers. He raised his clipboard, bracing it against the window frame as he began to write.

"Officer?" Sandy prompted.

"You ran a red light back there. That's going to be a $250 fine, sir."

Sandy's brow creased, but before he could reply Seth lunged forward. "Well, that's bogus." His face scrunched with disbelief, he wedged himself between his parents' seats. "Come on. That light was totally yellow."

"Seth." With one hand, Kirsten motioned her son back to his seat. "Hush. We don't need your opinion."

Sandy took a deep breath. He expelled it slowly before he spoke, eliminating all trace of challenge from his tone. "I do think we were through the intersection before the light turned red, officer."

The policeman glanced up from the clipboard, his face flushed with annoyance. "Look, if you want to challenge the ticket, that's your right," he snapped, ripping a paper off his pad. "But I suggest you save it for traffic court. Right now, you're just wasting my time and yours. Are we gonna have any trouble here?"

Kirsten plucked Sandy's sleeve. "Don't argue, sweetheart," she whispered. "It's not worth it. And we don't want to miss Ryan. Please."

Sandy's mouth was already open to object, but Kirsten shook her head, blue eyes bright with entreaty. Reluctantly, he raised his open palms. "Not at all, officer," he said, accepting the ticket with scrupulous courtesy.

"All right then. You folks can be on your way. Just remember—don't treat the street like it's a racetrack. Wherever you're going, it can't be that urgent. You drive safe now." With a curt nod, the police officer turned and strode back to his cruiser.

"No justice, no peace," Seth chanted as he left. His voice was soft enough so that the man didn't hear, but the words still elicited a stern glare from Kirsten. "Well, come on, Mom. No way that light was red," he insisted. "You know what I think? It's the end of the month. I bet the police have a quota to meet or they're stopping like, every tenth car. Or maybe the cop who writes the most tickets wins some kind of award. Probably a laminated certificate and a box of donuts."

"That's enough," Kirsten reproved. "Let it go, Seth."

"Dad?" he pleaded, turning to his father for support.

Sandy's attention remained fixed on the side mirror. His jaw tensed as he watched for a break in traffic, and his hands clenched the steering wheel. "It's not important, son," he replied. "Let's just concentrate on meeting Ryan so we can all go home and relax. This evening . . ." Blowing out a frustrated breath, he let the thought go unfinished.

"Yeah." With a sigh, Seth slouched down in his seat. "So far? Not exactly the night of family fun I had in mind. According to the Seth Cohen master plan, by now we should be eating dessert in the den and watching King Kong rip apart a dinosaur. Ryan's lucky. At least he clocked some quality time with a stripper."

"Seth . . ." Kirsten warned.

"Hey, I'm just saying, Mom. Even with the fight and all, he's got to be enjoying himself more than we are." Seth clasped his hands behind his neck and smiled absently at the ceiling. "Hmm . . . I wonder how she thanked him anyway."

"Do us a favor and don't wonder out loud," Sandy advised dryly. "And you're on sentry duty, remember? Just keep quiet and watch for the Rover. By now Ryan probably is on his way home."

With an effort, Seth obeyed. He stared out the window, amusing himself during breaks in traffic by plotting a new Atomic County adventure. In it The Ironist, with some small help from Kid Chino, saved a dozen strippers from a master villain who was using the stage's strobe light as a mind-control device. Just as three dancers wrapped The Ironist in a grateful embrace that involved both arms and legs, Seth noticed the sign for the strip club blinking up ahead.

"Huh," he mumbled, rousing reluctantly. "We're here? Guess we beat Ryan back after all."

Sandy pulled into the parking area, decelerating as he cruised the aisles in search of the Range Rover.

"Evidently we did," he agreed. "There's our car." He sounded surprised and somewhat apprehensive. "I thought sure getting stopped for that ticket--" Abruptly, he fell silent. His shoulders tensed, and he leaned closer to the windshield.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Kirsten asked.

Sandy gestured toward a flurry of movement in an unlit, distant corner of the lot. An open car door obscured the thrashing figures, but one seemed to loom over the other and something flashed, a glint of light slicing through the shadows. "Something's going on over there," he observed. "Looks like it could be a fight."

Seth slid forward, squinting. "Yeah, only think where we are, Dad. Maybe it's a different kind of action altogether."

The back Sandy's neck prickled suddenly and a chill sensation constricted his chest. "I don't think so," he muttered. Flicking a switch, he whipped the car around, accelerating toward the tangle of bodies. The vehicle's high beams raked the scene, throwing it into instant relief, and Kirsten gasped. She clutched Sandy's arm, her nails gouging through fabric into his skin.

"Oh my God! Sandy, that's Ryan!"

TBC


	6. Part 6: The Reunion

Knight-Errant Part 6: The Reunion 

Before his wife's horrified words even registered, Sandy had slammed on the brakes and flung open his door. "Seth, go get help!" he ordered as he started to race through the maze of vehicles in his way. "Kirsten, call 911!"

Seth was already tumbling clumsily out of the car, almost falling in his haste to follow. "Dad?"

"The club, Seth! Now!"

With an anguished glance over his shoulder, Seth bolted for the building, alternately cursing and yelling for someone to come out.

Kirsten, phone pressed to her ear, scrambled out of the passenger seat. "I don't know the address," she cried. Spinning around desperately, she searched for some sign or landmark. "Wait, we're on Ingleside and Stearns Boulevard! Just hurry, please!"

By the time she hung up, Sandy had reached the fight. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his voice, loud and laced with venom.

"Get off of him! Take your filthy hands off of my son!"

The words tangled with her own erratic heartbeats, the sound of Seth pounding on the club's unyielding exit, his frantic demands, "Hey! We need some help out here! Now! Come on, anybody!" Propelled by fear, Kirsten ran, clutching her phone like a weapon and instinctively crying Ryan's name.

She got no answer except shouts and thudding blows, all echoing with Sandy's incoherent fury.

There was so little ground to cover, but she felt as if she were moving in slow motion, trapped in a nightmare of suspended time. When she finally reached the unlit corner of the parking lot, Kirsten almost skidded into a pile of flailing bodies. Sandy was on top, his hands on another man's shoulders, clawing at him. Both of them were snarling, and the sight of her husband's face terrified Kirsten: it was unrecognizable, murderous with rage. As she caught her breath, stunned, Sandy plummeted backwards, wrenching his opponent with him. They fell almost at her feet, grunting, and rolled to the side, both struggling to claim something clutched in the other man's hand.

A sharp ping sliced the night, like an audible electric shock, as a knife clattered to the ground.

The tiny noise roused Kirsten. She whirled around the open door, and there was Ryan, slumped motionless, his body twisted half inside the car. His face was turned away from her, mashed against the floor mat, and one hand dangled over the door edge, palm bloody and facing out. With a gasp, Kirsten dropped to her knees on the cracked asphalt beside him. She bent close, one hand hovering over his chest while the other cupped his neck, fingers feeling urgently for a pulse.

As soon as she touched him, an uneven breath hissed through Ryan's teeth. He stirred and then stiffened, pulling away. "No," he growled, kicking back blindly. "Not gonna, you fucker --"

Kirsten choked back a laugh, somewhere between hysteria and relieved gratitude. "Oh, thank God. Ryan? Honey, it's just me," she crooned. "Can you hear me, sweetheart? It's Kirsten."

At the sound of her voice, Ryan froze. "Kirsten?" he whispered. With an effort, he rolled over, blinking in shame and bewilderment. "Sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--" Groaning, he grabbed the doorframe and levered himself awkwardly all the way to the ground.

"No, no. Don't move, sweetie, don't move," Kirsten urged, holding him still with one hand, soft and warm, on each shoulder. "It's all right now. We're here."

Ryan licked his lips, dazed and still trying to focus. "Why? Something wrong?" Suddenly his eyes widened, and he struggled, trying to haul himself to his feet. "Colston--knife." His voice broke, brittle with panic. "You've got to leave. Can't be here, Kirsten."

Kirsten's grip tightened and she gently forced Ryan back down, bracing his body against hers. "Stay still. Please, sweetie, listen to me. It's fine. You don't have to worry." Checking anxiously behind her, she saw Seth charging through the parking lot, three strides ahead of two other men. From her position, she couldn't see Sandy anymore, but she repeated the assurance anyway, praying that she was right. "It's fine. Everything's all right now."

"No. Colston--" Ryan insisted.

With relief, Kirsten detected the whine of sirens, still distant but coming closer. "The police will take care of him," she promised. Relaxing her hold, she leaned away fractionally to kiss Ryan's temple and caress his cheek. "Okay? You believe me?" He nodded, a slow, lopsided grin starting to form in response. Then, abruptly, he winced, his jaw clenching as he clutched his side. Kirsten's gaze followed the movement. "Oh, God," she gasped. "You're bleeding! What did he do?"

"Cut," Ryan said vaguely. "Not bad, though."

Ripping off her jacket, Kirsten folded the soft linen into a square. "Let me see," she urged, as he shrank from her, shaking his head. "Please?" She waited, her face both firm and beseeching, until Ryan sighed reluctant agreement. Then, carefully, she eased his palm away and peeled back his stained sweater. Her lips crimping, she inspected the wound before she positioned the impromptu bandage. "There, now," she murmured. "That's better, isn't it?" With one hand, she applied pressure, while the other brushed through his hair, fingers stroking softly in an effort to distract him.

Ryan swallowed hard. "Yeah. Just stings," he lied. "Thanks . . . Kirsten . . . I'm really sorry. Coming here, missing dinner—"

"Oh, sweetie." Kirsten touched her forehead to his for a moment. When she sat back, her mouth trembled and her eyes glistened brightly. "I forgive you. But you know," she teased, trying to muster a smile, "you will have to answer to Seth for spoiling his master plan."

"'Fraid of that," Ryan mumbled. He glanced around, troubled. "Where is Seth? And Sandy? He was here, wasn't he? What's going on?"

Kirsten wished she knew how to answer. Beyond the car door that supported Ryan's body and blocked her view, she could hear cries and muffled blows interspersed with grunts of pain. "Everything's under control," she claimed uncertainly. Peering around the side, she strained to see what was happening but it was impossible to tell unless she left Ryan alone and she wouldn't do that.

Behind them, emergency vehicles pulled into the parking lot, sirens wailing. They screeched to a stop, and suddenly events happened with dizzying speed. Paramedics and police raced over, surrounding Ryan and gently edging Kirsten out of their way. Two other officers sprinted past them towards the melee, and almost at once Sandy and Seth reappeared. Immediately, Kirsten clasped her husband's hand, relief and reassurance and residual fear all alive in her touch. Sandy's fingers twined through hers, holding tight. He looked wildly disheveled, his lip split, his hair whipped into fierce disarray, his face bruised and tense with concern as he searched for a clear glimpse of Ryan through the press of emergency personnel.

Beside him, Seth hopped from foot to foot, flushed and rumpled, craning to see. "Mom? Is Ryan okay?" he demanded.

Kirsten glanced helplessly at her son. "I think so," she replied. "He says he is."

"Yeah. Like that means anything." Frustrated, Seth drummed his fist against his thighs. Then his expression brightened. Very stealthily, he ducked around to the other side of the car, opened the driver's door, and slid inside. Scooting over to the passenger seat, he leaned out, a broad smile blossoming when he saw Ryan try to swat away the medic who was cutting off his sweater.

"Hey, man!" Seth crowed. "How are you doing down there?"

"It's just a damn cut," Ryan growled irritably. Then the voice registered and he jerked around in surprise. "Seth? What are you--? Shit . . ." He broke off, panting, and a spasm of pain distorted his face as he clutched his side again.

The paramedic at his shoulders eased him back down. "Whoa there, pal," he advised sternly. "We want to get this bleeding stopped. You can help us a lot by not moving, okay?"

"Sweetie, please, just lie still," Kirsten urged, at the same time that Sandy ordered, "Seth, don't get in the way."

"But I'm not--" Seth protested. He gestured from the medics to himself, indicating how safely distant he was, positioned inside Colston's car. Sandy shook his head. His brows ratcheted into a reproving V, he lifted one warning finger, and his son squirmed down in the seat. "Point taken," he conceded grudgingly. "Keep quiet and let these fine, trained professionals work."

The female medic got up, flashing a brief grin at Seth as she headed back to the ambulance. As soon as her departure left a space clear, Sandy released Kirsten's hand and started to step forward. At the same time, a policeman placed a detaining palm on his arm.

"Sir? If you could come with me for a couple minutes, I'd like to get your statement now."

Sandy pulled away from the officer. "Right after I talk to my son," he replied. Ignoring Seth's significant, "in the way" cough, he crouched beside Ryan. "Hey there, kid. It is damn good to see you."

"You too," Ryan sighed. Then he frowned, pointing dubiously at Sandy's battered face. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Now anyway." Releasing a shaky breath, Sandy paused before continuing. His tone turned playful with relief. "Seems like you had yourself one hell of an action-packed night here. Although who could believe you would pass up pad Thai and a movie at home for strippers and fights--"

"I didn't," Ryan protested. "I mean, not like that anyway, Sandy. I swear. I just--" In desperation, his gaze swung to Seth, who shrugged helplessly.

"Sorry, man," he mouthed. "Cone of silence over here."

Chuckling softly, Sandy reached down to squeeze Ryan's hand. "Never mind, kid. I know. So how do you feel? You doing okay?"

"I think," Ryan hedged. He flinched when the male paramedic swabbed several small slashes below his ear. "If they would just stop doing stuff like that--"

"Almost done," the man promised. "A couple more minutes, and we'll be on our way."

As he spoke his partner returned, wheeling a gurney and collapsing it next to Ryan. His eyes shifted to it with instant mistrust. "What's that for?" he demanded. "Once you've got all the cuts cleaned up, I get to go home, right? You said you were leaving . . ."

"No, I said _we_ were," the medic clarified. "Sorry, kid. Right now, you get to pay a little visit to the emergency room. What you call cuts we call knife wounds. And that one on your side is going to need quite a few stitches. Plus my guess is that you've got a couple cracked ribs, and you've lost a fair amount of blood that has to be replaced."

Wincing, Seth examined the vein inside his own elbow. "Well, that sucks," he declared. "I'd offer you some of mine, dude, but . . . well, Harbor hosted a Red Cross drive back in tenth grade—come to think of it, I'm pretty sure it was all Taylor's idea—and turns out that the sight of my own blood makes me kind of nauseous." He sighed almost nostalgically. "Puke, everywhere . . . Quarts of it. And we'd had burritos and corn niblets for lunch, so--"

"Yeah," Ryan groaned. "Thanks for sharing, Seth."

"Hey, man, I just want you to understand why I can't give you some of my premiere-grade A Cohen superfuel. 'Cause I totally would, if it weren't for the possibility of, you know, mucho vomit being involved. Possibly of the projectile variety." The female medic choked back a laugh as she readied a syringe, and Ryan shot Seth a sideways death-glare. His eyes widened innocently in response. "I'm just saying . . ."

"Cone of silence, dude. Use it."

Sandy grinned, welcoming the familiar banter, and allowing it to ease the worry that had been etched on his face. "Good luck keeping him quiet, kid. I've never known the cone to work for more than three minutes." With a final pat of Ryan's shoulder, he pushed himself to his feet. "The police want to talk to me, but I'll be right back, okay?"

Ryan's gaze followed him anxiously. "Sandy?"

The trace of fear he detected made Sandy bend down again. "I just have to give a statement," he explained, running his thumb along Ryan's cheek. "The police will want to talk to you later too. But there's nothing to worry about, kid. Nobody's in trouble here except for the SOB who attacked you." For a moment his expression darkened, and his fist clenched reflexively at his side. Then he took a deep breath, rose, and followed the police officer behind the car.

"Okay, we're just going to start you on some fluids, and we'll be ready to roll, hon," the female medic announced. She tapped the back of Ryan's hand, raising the vein. "Little sting, all right?"

"No problem," he muttered grimly, but the moment the needle pierced his skin, he paled, his eyes rolling back and his lashes fluttering closed.

"Ryan? Ryan?" Kirsten's voice rose, ragged with concern. She moved closer, gripping her own elbows in an effort not to interfere. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's all right," the medic assured her. "We see this reaction all the time. Ryan, talk to me. You still with us?"

Ryan murmured something faint and incoherent.

"Sweetie, that's not good enough. Look at me," Kirsten urged.

Leaning out of the passenger seat, Seth waved eagerly. "Let me do it, Mom." He raised his right hand, fingers locked in the Vulcan salute. "Ryan, buddy, little experiment here. Tell me how many fingers I'm holding up."

Ryan's eyes flickered open to suspicious slits. He spoke slowly, stopping a few times to steady his breath. "If it's one, and . . . in the middle . . . gonna kick your ass later, man. Sorry, Kirsten. I know. Don't say ass."

"Yeah . . . and he's fine." Seth's dimples danced with satisfaction. "By the way, bro, the answer was four. Well, and a thumb. It was a trick question. But you know, it's sad, really: here you are, supposed to be the math genius, and you can't even count."

"Kick your ass. Twice. One, two."

Seth beamed at his mother. "Told you. He's fine." He lowered his voice confidentially. "Oh, and Ryan? You said ass again."

Unconvinced by their banter, Kirsten turned to the paramedics. "Is he really all right? Because this isn't the first time Ryan passed out. I should have mentioned it right away. He was unconscious when I found him." Twisting her rings distractedly, she watched as they transferred him to the gurney, strap him in place, and raise its legs. "He came to right away, but still . . ." Before Ryan could protest she touched her hand to his lips, silencing him. "Sweetie, I know you'll say it was nothing. But they need to know."

The female medic jotted a note on her chart and then fastened it to a hook on the gurney's side rail. Glancing over, she offered Kirsten an empathetic smile. "I understand how you feel, Mrs. Cohen. I've got three boys of my own. Don't worry. The doctors will examine your son thoroughly before they send him home."

"Dude." Seth's expression mingled worry and amusement. He climbed out of the car, pausing to slam the door viciously behind him. "You fainted? Seriously?"

Ryan gritted his teeth. "I did not faint. Maybe passed out for a second. That's all."

"Got it." Seth nodded wisely. "Kid Chino doesn't faint. Or, I'd guess, swoon. Or get the vapors."

"He does use his fists of fury, though."

Seth hopped back next to his mother, just in case. "Ah, right. That he does do." Impulsively, he took Kirsten's hand, prompting her to smile with surprised gratitude as they followed the gurney to the ambulance.

"Seth?" Ryan asked, peering backwards. "You guys never told me. Why did you come here anyway?"

"Oh, you know." Seth shrugged evasively. "We just thought we'd bring the party to you. But you totally missed the show, which sucks. Because dude, it was awesome." He patted his own chest, recalling the scene with pride. "The Cohen men starring in Righteous Fury: Revenge of the Newport Knights. Man, Dad's got a wicked left hook. Who knew?"

Automatically, Ryan grinned for a moment, but then his expression clouded. "Yeah, only I don't understand--"

"No? Seems clear to me," Seth claimed. "You must still be hazy. You know—from the whole not-fainting episode."

Laughing, the female medic started to load equipment inside the ambulance as a police officer signaled her partner to the squad car. "Mrs. Cohen, who's going to ride, you or your husband?"

"I will," Kirsten decided instantly. She looked around in confusion. "Actually, I'm not sure where Sandy is right now. Seth, find your father. Tell him we're on our way to the hospital."

"No," Ryan protested. "We can't go yet."

Startled, Kirsten looked from him to Seth, who shrugged his own bewilderment. "Sweetie, we have to--"

"No," Ryan insisted. "Not until Sandy's back."

"Dude," Seth whispered, indicating the gurney straps. "I don't think you're in any position to set terms here. It's kind of a done deal."

Ryan's eyes sought those of the female paramedic. "Please?" he entreated. "He said he wouldn't be long."

Before the woman could answer, her partner returned to grab his supply kit. "The police want me to examine the perp before they take him in," he explained. "Shouldn't take more a couple minutes. I'll be right back."

"Damn," Seth whistled. He gazed at Ryan with amazed admiration. "That is some freaky Atwood mojo you've got working, buddy. You want a delay, you get a delay. Okay, you've got to tell me how you do that."

"I'll consider it. If you find Sandy."

"Don't worry, buddy. I am on the case." Seth took three steps and spun back around. "In fact, I've solved it already," he proclaimed triumphantly. "Do I hear a eureka? Okay, I'll say it myself. Eureka, Dad's coming now. Hey, do you suppose this means I have my own Cohen mojo, or is it just part of yours?"

Ignoring the question, Ryan twisted as far as he could. "Sandy?" he called, his voice raspy with apprehension.

Sandy hurried over, holding an icepack to one eye and smiling reassurance. "Right here, kid."

"Everything's okay? The cops--"

"Are arresting that--" With an effort, Sandy censored himself. "Are arresting Mr. Colston as we speak. I told them they could get your statement tomorrow. Jerry and I gave them all the information they needed tonight."

"Good then. That's good. He won't be able to get to Chelsea."

Sighing with relief, Ryan settled back on the gurney. As he did so, Jerry strode into view, talking with a police officer. The man grinned broadly at Ryan, but his expression held uneasy mixture of respect, guilt and sympathy.

"Hey, there, ace," he called. "Officer, you mind if I speak to my friend for a moment?"

"His 'friend'?" Seth squinted, measuring the bulk of the man as he walked over. "Ryan, you're friends with somebody the size of the poolhouse?" Cautiously, he stepped aside to make room, but as Jerry squeezed through he clapped Seth on the back, almost staggering him. "O . . . kay," he groaned, hunching over. "Good thing there's an ambulance standing by. I think I may need it too."

Looming over the gurney, Jerry grimaced with self-reproach. "Shit, kid. I'm damned sorry about this," he said awkwardly. "I shoulda thrown that sonofabitch off a pier instead of just out of the fucking club."

Ryan managed a smile. "Not your fault," he replied. "But could you do me a favor, Jerry? Call Chelsea, make sure if she's okay?"

"Fuck, ace, why wouldn't she be? The shitass never got near her. But tell you what—I'll call. She'll want to know what happened to her hero." Jerry patted Ryan's arm clumsily. "You take care, all right, kid?"

Sidling close to his parents, Seth whispered, "Aww, hear that? 'Her hero.' Gives you a warm, gooey Disneyfied kind of feeling, doesn't it?"

Jerry had turned to leave but Seth's comment made him pause. He glanced back, his mouth curved into a meaningful grin. "In fact, knowing Chelsea?" he drawled. "She'll want to do something special to make her hero feel better." One finger touched his forehead in a farewell salute and he swaggered back to the club, leaving Seth staring, open-mouthed, after him.

"Yeah," Ryan muttered. "More like kick my ass for not being more careful."

"Whoa!" Seth breathed. He whipped his awestruck gaze back to Ryan. "Chelsea's the stripper, right? And she's on kicking terms with your ass? And hey, what exactly does Andre the Giant there mean by 'something special'? Dude! I demand the whole story. Unabridged. Uncensored. Unadulterated—unless, you know, adultery is part of the tale." Shimmying with excitement, Seth swiveled to face his mother. "Mom, can I ride with Ryan? Huh? Can I? Huh?"

"Absolutely not," Kirsten replied. Her voice was amused but firm, and she placed a protective hand on Ryan's head. "I'm going with Ryan. You and your father can follow in the car."

As she spoke, the male paramedic returned, signaling his partner to help him load the gurney into the ambulance. Kirsten stepped aside reluctantly, but as soon as Ryan was settled, she started to clamber in after him. One foot was poised on the step when a ring tone chimed, the sound unexpected and strangely shrill. Frowning with irritation, Kirsten paused to fumble inside her purse for her cell phone.

"Mom!"

Seth's protest, shocked and accusing, ripped through the night air.

"What?" Confused, Kirsten stared at her son. Then her eyes widened with shamed comprehension. "Oh, Seth. Sweetie, no. I'm not taking this call. I'm turning the damn thing off."

"Dad?" Seth pivoted grimly to confront his father. "What about yours?"

"It's on," Sandy admitted. "But just for emergencies."

"Like what? 'Cause see, I think the emergency already happened. "Or maybe there's something you think might be more important?"

Before either of his parents could answer, the male medic interjected, "Mrs. Cohen? Are you coming? We're ready to roll now."

With an anxious glance back at Seth, Kirsten nodded and climbed inside.

"Let's go, son," Sandy urged. "The sooner Ryan gets treated, the sooner we can get him home and have that family time you wanted so much." He raised his voice so that Ryan could hear him inside the ambulance. "How does that sound to you, kid?"

His eyes drifting close, Ryan nodded. "Home," he murmured. "Yeah. Sounds really good."

The doors swung closed and the ambulance began to back out, its siren blaring a warning. Draping an arm around Seth, Sandy started toward their car, but his son shrugged out of his grasp. He stalked away, his back rigid, his feet striking the asphalt deliberately.

"Seth!" Sandy called, hurrying to catch up. "Hey! What's going on?"

"Nothing," Seth claimed. His shoulders stiffened, but he didn't look back. "I just remembered what this whole damn evening was about in the first place, that's all."

TBC


	7. Part 7: Doctor's Orders

_Sorry for the delay. RL issues plus some severe writer's block equals a long time between chapters. Thanks to all of you who stuck with this story._

**Knight-Errant 7: Doctor's Orders**

Sandy adjusted an icepack over his eye as he examined Seth's stony profile. He knew his son. By now, Seth should be in mid-monologue, feverishly rehashing everything that happened, plotting ridiculous—or, rather, ridonkulous—schemes to speed Ryan's recovery, and speculating about all the inappropriate forms of TLC that Chelsea could provide. Instead, he was sitting in uncharacteristic silence, tense and erect, his hands precisely positioned on the steering wheel.

It didn't make sense.

"Seth," Sandy ventured cautiously. "What's going on? This attitude of yours . . ."

"What attitude?" Seth retorted. "I'm driving, that's all. Concentrating on the road. You know, so I don't get in an accident, or pulled over for running a red light or something. Oh wait—I forgot. That light wasn't red. It couldn't have been, because you know, Sandy Cohen can do no wrong." Very deliberately, Seth braked and signaled a turn into HOAG's parking garage.

A fine edge of irritation crept into Sandy's tone. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that, hey, we barely got to the club in time. If that cop had stopped us for just a couple minutes longer, Ryan probably would be dead now."

Sandy blanched, stricken with horrified realization. "Oh my God," he whispered. "That's true . . ." Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath and released it slowly before he spoke again. "All right, son, you're upset, I understand that. God knows, we've had a major scare tonight, and after something like that . . . well, it can be hard to sort out your emotions. But you've got to remember that Ryan is fine. Or at least, he's going to be fine." Sandy's tone softened. "Come on, buddy," he urged. "Don't torture yourself, imagining how much worse the outcome could have been."

Reaching over, he tried to knead the tension out of his son's shoulder, but Seth shrugged his hand away.

"'The outcome could have been'," he echoed dully. "Nice business-speak, Dad. Way to put things in perspective." As he pulled into a parking space, Seth glanced at his father, his expression bleak and faintly pleading. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" Sandy demanded. "Seth, if something else is going on with you, please, just talk to me."

"Ha! 'Talk to you.' Good one there, Dad, really funny." Already halfway out of the car, Seth waved an ironic apology. "Yeah, only no, I don't think so. I've got more important things to do right now."

With an emphatic slam of his door, Seth turned and sprinted toward the pedestrian bridge. Sandy trailed one step behind, frowning with bewildered concern until the ominous red "Emergency" sign flashed into view. Immediately, a wave of irrational panic submerged all other emotions. His pulse pounding, Sandy caught up to Seth at the top of the stairs.

"Ryan is going to be fine," he repeated, as much to reassure himself as his son.

"Yeah?" Seth prompted, unconvinced. All insolence drained from his face as he turned to his father. Below them, a medical team swarmed out to meet an ambulance, and Seth swallowed hard, his glazed eyes fixed on the frenzied activity, the urgent rush to get the victim inside "'Cause shit, Dad, this place . . ."

"Is scary as hell, I know." Looping a supportive arm around Seth's shoulders, Sandy propelled him forward. "Come on, son. Let's find your mother and Ryan, okay?"

Leaning against his father, Seth nodded and started down the stairs.

Inside the hospital Kirsten stood by the admitting desk, mechanically completing information forms. She peered up, eyes clouded with anxiety, each time anyone entered the area. When the sliding doors swooshed open behind her, she spun around. The clipboard clattered unnoticed from her grasp and she sighed with relief at the sight of Seth and Sandy.

"I am so, so glad you're here," she cried, launching herself across the room to hug them both at the same time.

"Ryan?" Sandy prompted. His voice emerged muffled by his wife's embrace.

"He's being examined now. I wanted to stay with him, but they made me wait here." Smiling tremulously, Kirsten tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, took Seth by one hand, Sandy by the other, and led the way to a sectional couch in a corner of the room. She didn't let go even after she sat down.

"How was Ryan? On the way here I mean?" Seth demanded. "You know, was he like. . .?" Words failed him for once and he gestured incoherently with his free hand.

Kirsten's lips crimped slightly. "He was like Ryan," she recalled. "He kept insisting that he was fine. And he . . ." Her voice broke. Huddling against Sandy's shoulder, she pleated a stained fold of her blouse while she regained control. "He apologized for getting blood on my clothes. As if that mattered at all."

Seth's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to comment, but Sandy forestalled him. "Kirsten? Did they tell you anything about his condition?"

"Not really. The doctor just said not to worry . . ." Shuddering, Kirsten shook her head. "How is that even possible? God, it's the most awful feeling, Sandy, riding in an ambulance with your child, having to just sit there, helpless . . . We've been so lucky until now, never having to go through that with Seth . . ."

"Sweetheart--"

"We've been blessed, Sandy. We have. And we can never, never take that for granted again." Kirsten's eyes blazed with intensity before memory dimmed them again. Her nails scraped restively at a bloodstain on her cuff. "I just kept thinking, the whole way here . . . What if we hadn't gone to the club? What if that man had the chance to . . .?" She stopped, unable to finish the thought, and her voice sank to a whisper. "And Ryan. He wouldn't admit it, but I know he was in pain, and there was nothing I could do. I just kept promising him that we'd get here soon. Only it seemed like the trip would never end."

Sandy's arm tightened around his wife's waist. "But Ryan was awake the entire time, Kirsten? He didn't lose consciousness?"

"No, thank God. I made him keep talking the whole way here."

Seth stirred, shifting closer to his mother. "Yeah? You made Ryan talk? How did you manage that?"

"Oh, it wasn't easy," Kirsten admitted. She glanced fondly at Seth and squeezed his hand. "I just kept asking him questions about school and—well, anything, really. Did you know that his favorite color is green?"

"Green, huh?"

"Dark green, not like grass, and definitely not like Kool-Aid," Kirsten reported. Seth stared at her, incredulous, and she blushed. "I made him go into detail. Ryan complained that I had him mixed up with you, sweetie, when I wouldn't accept any one-word answers. But you definitely can't tease him about fainting again."

Sandy's gaze darted from his wife to his son. With relief, he noted faint amusement on Kirsten's face, although Seth's expression still appeared somewhat distant. "What's this about fainting?" he asked. "Did I miss something here?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Seth mumbled.

Sandy frowned, his brow furrowing quizzically, but Kirsten, oblivious to any tension, gave a soft chuckle. Somehow the sound relaxed Seth. He sagged in his chair, unclenching the fist he had made and blowing a puff of air that ruffled his curls.

"Just our boys being boys, sweetheart," Kirsten explained, stroking Sandy's wrist. "While you were talking to the police, the paramedics started an IV-line. Ryan passed out—just for a moment—and Seth Ezekiel here--"

"Hey!" Seth protested. "Ezekiel? Mom . . ."

"Seth Ezekiel," she repeated, emphasizing her son's middle name, "made fun of him for it. I believe the words 'swoon' and 'vapors' were used."

"Really? 'Swoon,' ala Scarlett O'Hara? Hmm. Somehow I doubt Ryan appreciated being compared to a southern belle," Sandy observed drolly. "You do live dangerously, son." He chanced a small, indulgent smile, but Seth hunched one shoulder, staring glumly at the floor and tapping the toes of his sneakers together.

"Yeah. Except compared to Ryan, maybe not so much."

Abruptly, the moment of levity ended, and the Cohens settled into silence. Their eyes fixed on the doors leading to the examination area, willing them open, trying to bore through the surface so that they could see inside.

"I don't want Ryan working with that man anymore," Kirsten announced suddenly. Her voice, fierce and adamant, startled Seth and Sandy.

"Sweetheart . . .?"

"I mean it," she insisted. "If Ryan is going to intern at the Newport Group, he should work with you, Sandy. Matt Ramsey . . . well, the man is obviously irresponsible and even if this wasn't his fault, it's not right, forcing Ryan to deal with him."

Seth ground his toe into the floor. "Said the woman who's working with Julie Cooper," he mumbled, grimacing.

"What about Julie?" Kirsten asked blankly.

"Seth," Sandy warned. "This isn't the time . . ."

Whipping around, Seth confronted his father. "No?" he argued. "So when is the time, Dad? See, according to my watch, it's like five months overdue."

"We can talk about this later." Sandy folded his arms, his expression daring his son to challenge him.

"So . . . what? You're a judge now? Case closed?" Seth scoffed. "'Cause yeah, keeping Mom in the dark has worked really well so far . . ."

Bewildered, Kirsten looked from Sandy to Seth and back again. "What are you two talking about?" she demanded. When no one responded, she lifted her chin and her voice grew frosty. "I want answers. Now."

Seth started to reply but Sandy glared a warning so he shrugged, muttering, "Fine. You're the one who should have told her anyway."

"Kirsten, listen, after Trey regained consciousness last fall . . ." Sandy paused, setting his jaw, before he continued, "He accused Ryan of shooting him. Ryan was arrested and held overnight before Trey recanted."

All trace of color leached out of Kirsten's already pale skin. "He was arrested?" she stammered. "But why would Trey . . .?"

"It was Julie's doing," Sandy admitted. "She paid Trey off to say Ryan had shot him so that Marissa wouldn't be blamed."

"Oh my God." Kirsten's voice was barely audible. She pulled away from Sandy, sinking against the couch, staring straight ahead. On her face, disbelief slowly dissolved into realization and then into fury. "All this time I've been working with Julie, supporting her, welcoming her into our home, and you never told me . . .?"

"Yeah well, you know, dad's been kind of busy," Seth observed caustically. "Come to think of it, you've both been busy. But hey, no worries, guys. Ryan and me—we understand about priorities."

Kirsten swiveled around, scalded by the hurt in her son's voice. "Oh, sweetie. Seth, no, don't ever think that. Your dad and I are never too busy for you and Ryan."

"Actually . . . we have been, sweetheart."

Kirsten caught her breath and Seth allowed his bleak gaze to meet his father's. His mouth twisted, but he said nothing.

"Seth's right," Sandy admitted reluctantly, "At least he's right about me. But I think . . . neither one of us has been there for the boys the way we should have been. If we had been paying attention, if we had been listening—" Sandy swallowed hard and twined his fingers through Kirsten's. "Maybe we wouldn't be sitting here right now." Reaching across her lap, Sandy covered Seth's clenched fist with his other hand. "I think I get it now, son. This is what you were trying to tell me, right?"

"Yeah." Seth lifted one shoulder in a desolate shrug. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Well then, tell you what. Once we get Ryan home, we'll sit down together, all four of us, and we'll see if we can't get this family back--"

Sandy stopped as a doctor strode into the room, stilling all conversation. He paused by the desk, adjusting his glasses and scanning the faces that fixed on him expectantly.

"Mrs. Cohen?" he called.

Kirsten and Sandy both rose in a breathless rush. Beside them, Seth scrambled to his feet, knocking a stack of magazines to the floor and almost toppling a plant with his elbow. Ignoring them, he sidled next to his mother and grabbed her hand, gripping it tighter than he had since the day she left for rehab.

"We're the Cohens." Sandy stepped forward, peering at the doctor's nametag. "How is Ryan, Dr. McHolland?"

Behind his wireless frames, the doctor's eyes danced. "Right this minute?" he mused. His mischievous tone instantly eased the tension. "Well, right now I'd say Ryan is very upset that I'm out here instead of him. He seemed to believe he could head home the moment we finished putting in his stitches."

"Right," Seth agreed eagerly. "So, what, he can, can't he? Come home, I mean?"

"Not quite yet. But soon," Dr. McHolland promised. He smiled at Seth, who was straining forward, bouncing on his toes, before turning his attention to Sandy and Kirsten. "Ryan will be fine," he continued more seriously, "but he did lose a fair amount of blood. We're replacing that now, and we want to wait for all of his test results before we release him. Basically, he has some rather colorful bruising, two cracked ribs, and several superficial cuts around his neck. Those should heal with no problem. It's just the knife wound on his right side that concerns us. We will need to watch for any sign of infection since it's fairly deep and we found bits of gravel embedded when we cleaned it."

The doctor's hand sketched a probing motion that made Seth wince, and Kirsten sucked in a quick, fearful breath. "But Ryan really is all right?" she prompted.

"He's very sore, weaker than he wants to admit, and, shall we say, quite impatient to be out of here. So 'all right' might be overstating his condition. But yes, all things considered, Ryan is doing very well." With another smile, warm and reassuring, Dr. McHolland inclined his head toward the exam area. "Why don't you come and see for yourself?" he suggested. As he led them down the corridor, he added over his shoulder, "And while you're there, maybe you can convince Ryan to relax. Frankly, he acts like he's never heard the word before."

"Oh, he's heard it." Sandy's eyebrows wagged in amusement and he beamed at Kirsten and Seth, his heady relief enveloping them like a hug. "We're just not sure that he knows how to do it."

"Well then, this would be an ideal time for him to learn." Dr. McHolland stopped at a cubicle, pushed back the surrounding curtain and stepped to one side. "Your family is here, Ryan," he announced.

For a moment, the nurse bustling next to the bed blocked their view, but when she moved aside, the Cohens saw Ryan sitting upright, fumbling to pull a sheet over his naked chest and the stark white bandage that covered much of his right side. Against his ashen skin every bruise stood out in ugly relief, but his face lit with welcome at the sight of Kirsten and Sandy.

"Hey guys," he murmured, lips curving in a hesitant half-smile. Then Seth wedged between his parents, face wreathed in a grin, and Ryan flushed, tugging the cover higher. "Don't say it, Seth," he warned, before any of the Cohens could speak.

Seth's eyes widened innocently. "Dude!" he protested, struggling to repress the laughter that undermined his feigned indignation. "Say what?"

"You know," Ryan growled. "Whatever you're thinking right now."

"I am totally hurt, buddy. For your information, I was just thinking that you . . . about your . . . what you and the. . . Ahhh, right." Squinching up his face, Seth sighed regretfully. "Yeah, probably best not to share." Ryan started to laugh, but his breath snagged on a flash of pain. Seth winced in sympathy. All teasing vanished from his tone and he sketched a small wave. "Seriously, though, man. It's good to see you."

"Thanks," Ryan said softly. "It's good to see all of you too."

Slipping next to the bed, Kirsten cupped Ryan's cheek and leaned down to kiss him. "How are you feeling, sweetie?" she asked, at the same time that Sandy moved to the other side, kneading Ryan's shoulder as he remarked, "Hey, kid. How about it? You hanging in there?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Ryan emphasized the last word. Darting a sideways glare at Dr. McHolland, he added pointedly, "All stitched up and ready to go home with you now."

The doctor paused as he checked the blood pressure read-out. "See what I mean?" he chuckled. Peering over his glasses, he shook his head. "Sorry, Ryan. I'm afraid you're stuck here a little while longer. And since you are, here's a little hint: you're allowed to actually let your head touch the pillow. In fact, we recommend it. Cheryl? How's the refueling?"

In what appeared to be a single motion, the nurse removed a syringe from Ryan's elbow, bandaged the tiny puncture wound it had made and nodded. "All done, Doctor."

"Excellent. You folks visit—and remember what I said about Ryan relaxing. I'll be back when we get his test results." Dr. McHolland winked, closing the curtain with a flourish as he and the nurse left.

"Hmm. Tests, the man says." Claiming the solitary chair in the cubicle, Seth straddled it so that he could cross his arms and rest his head on the back. "I'm guessing those would be, what? Anatomy? Biology? Physiology?" His brow creased and he tapped his chin solemnly. "Man, those sound brutal, Ryan. I hope you studied. But maybe you were too busy with extracurricular activities—you know, liiiike . . ." Seth prolonged the word, his eyes sparkling wickedly. "Visiting strip clubs, perhaps? Getting to know its lovely employees up close and personal?"

Cocking a finger, Seth flashed a smug "gotcha" grin that deepened his dimples.

"I wasn't . . ." Ryan objected. "I mean, okay, I was, but not that way. . ." His cheeks flamed and then hollowed as he sucked in a mortified breath. "Look, Sandy, I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I know I owe you an explanation for what happened tonight . . ."

Sandy patted Ryan's wrist, letting his hand linger for a moment. "Actually, kid, you know what?" he declared. "You don't owe us anything at all." He waited, smiling with warm assurance, until the tension in Ryan's face eased. Then, abruptly, he swiveled around, grabbed Seth's arm and hoisted him out of his seat. "You, though . . . up!" he ordered. "Your mother gets to sit. You? Get to be a gentleman, son."

Ryan smothered a gleeful snort as Seth stumbled to his feet, gaping with surprise.

"Yeah. Okay. Um—Mom?" Seth stammered. He rubbed his elbow, gesturing to the vacant chair and sketching a clumsy bow when his mother sat down.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Kirsten said absently. Hitching the chair closer to the bed, she angled it so that she could maintain contact with Ryan and still reach the table next to him. "Do you need anything?" Her hand hovered over the pitcher. "Something to drink? There's ice water here, but I'm sure I could get you some juice . . ."

Ryan ducked his head, embarrassed, and pulled the sheet tighter. "I'm good, Kirsten. Thanks. But maybe . . . something to wear?" he suggested. "My clothes are . . . well, pretty much useless now."

"But, sweetie, why do you need . . .?"

"To go home," Ryan explained. His eyes narrowed, flickering warily between Kirsten and Sandy. "I am going home tonight, right? As soon as the doctor gets back?"

Kirsten looked helplessly at Sandy, who brushed Ryan's hair off his forehead and then raked back his own.

"Well, we certainly hope so, kid," he replied. "But Dr. McHolland didn't make any promises, so we'll just have to be patient until he gives the okay. At least you've got us to keep you company, right?" He wagged his eyebrows, trying to elicit a smile, but Ryan's mouth set in a dejected line.

"In fact," Kirsten added, fluffing the pillow behind Ryan and gently but firmly easing him against it, "we're under strict orders to make you relax. So here's the deal. You lie back—all the way back, young man—and I'll see if the nurse can find some scrubs for you to wear home. But you have to relax for me first."

Reluctantly, Ryan settled against the pillow, trying not to tense as Kirsten tucked the sheet around his bare shoulders.

"Speaking of relax . . ." Seth surveyed the cubicle in consternation. "Aren't there chairs for the rest of us? I mean, if we're going to be here very long--" At Ryan's glare, he amended hastily, "Not that we will be. Or that I mind standing . . . It's just, you know, for dad, because he's old. Or, I mean, older . . ."

"Gee thanks for your concern, son. I'm touched," Sandy drawled wryly. "Tell you what. I'll hunt up a couple more chairs—that is, assuming this decrepit old body will move." Groaning, he shuffled forward, using the bedrail as a crutch. "Sweetheart?" he wheezed, doing his best impression of an infirm ninety-year-old. "A little help here?"

Kirsten laughed. Getting up, she poured a glass of water and put it in easy reach of Ryan. "In case you get thirsty," she whispered, dropping a kiss on his forehead before she took Sandy's arm.

"It's your job to keep Ryan entertained until we get back, Seth," Sandy ordered. "Think you can manage that?"

Offended, Seth slapped his chest. "Please! You are talking to Seth Cohen, AKA Mr. Comic Relief. I _am_ entertainment. Tell them, Ryan . . . Ryan? Go on. That was your cue."

"Um . . . yeah. Seth's funny," Ryan agreed doubtfully. "Kirsten? Sandy? You guys won't be gone long, right?"

"Back before you know it," Kirsten promised. "Remember now, relax." Behind Seth's back, she smiled, resting her cheek on her folded hands and miming sleep as she and Sandy left.

Grinning, Ryan promptly closed his eyes.

"Okay, looks like it's Seth-Ryan time," Seth announced, spinning around to reposition the chair so that he could straddle it again. "For once, it doesn't even have to be about me, or at least not entirely about me, because dude, I so want--" A soft snore interrupted him and he paused, leaning over the bed suspiciously. "Ryan?" he prompted. "Ryan! Come on, I know you're awake."

"Nope," Ryan mumbled. "Sleeping now. Doctor's orders."

"Yeah?" Seth countered. "You do realize that's never stopped me before, even when you've actually been asleep. I'll just keep talking, buddy."

Ryan sighed and opened his eyes, defeated. "That's true . . . So Seth-Ryan time." Inclining his head, he signaled an official start. "All right, Seth. I'm listening."

"Okay, good. So . . . you should have called me, bro."

"Seth, I . . ." Seth folded his arms and Ryan looked away, abashed. "Yeah, I know. Look, I'm sorry, but I kept thinking I wouldn't be very late. Then . . . well, things got out of control and my phone didn't work."

Unmoved, Seth shook a stern finger. "No excuses. You should have called me," he insisted. "Have we learned nothing, dude?" He waited, but Ryan just squinted dubiously. "Remember? 'United we're unstoppable. Divided people get shot.' Words to live by, my friend. In this case, almost literally."

"I didn't get shot, Seth."

"Shot, stabbed—same ultimate effect," Seth declared. "Sharp, burny things puncturing bodies, tearing flesh, ripping muscles, making blood gush, and . . . and . . . and . . ." His head plummeted onto his hands as his voice trailed off. "I just made myself totally queasy here."

Rolling his eyes, Ryan grabbed the glass Kirsten had filled and offered it to Seth, who drained the contents in a single gulp.

"Thanks," he said brightly, as he wiped his mouth. "That helped. You'll be pleased to know that I don't think I'll puke after all."

"Good news."

"So . . ." Seth shifted, putting his face in profile. "Notice anything?"

Ryan blinked, confused. "Like . . . what?"

Lifting his chin, Seth preened as he pointed to his jaw. "Battle scars, buddy. See? Proof that I, Seth Cohen of the brains-but-not-so-much-brawn hit the big, bad stalker/kidnapper guy. That's right. I punched the asshole. Put the hurt on him big time."

"Yeah?" Ryan allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. "Are you sure? 'Cause that mark? Sort of looks like the start of a zit."

"It does not!" Insulted, Seth patted the red spot affectionately. "This is obviously a wound, incurred in combat."

"If you say so. But you know, Seth all it really proves is that the big, bad, stalker/kidnapper guy hit you."

"In retaliation! To defend himself from my mighty blows!" Seth countered indignantly. He curled his fingers, displaying bruised knuckles for Ryan's inspection. "For your information I was right there defending you, bro. With no thought of my personal safety." Nodding, Seth admired his own broken skin as he waved his hand closer to Ryan's face.

"You don't want me to kiss it and make it better, do you?"

"Dude!" Open-mouthed with horror, Seth yanked his fist away.

Laughing, Ryan gently rapped Seth's knuckles with his own. "Sorry. And seriously . . . thanks, man. I don't know what I would have done if you and your parents hadn't shown up."

"Just give us the chance, Ryan. We'll always show up."

Seth's eyes held Ryan's, both of their expressions grave and sincere.

The moment of reflective silence was broken when the curtain around the cubicle rustled softly. "Ryan?" a female voice whispered. "Are you in there? Can I come in?"

Ryan's eyes widened. "Chelsea?"

"Chelsea?" Seth echoed. "Of the club and the pole and the lap dance and . . . and, um?" Babbling incoherently he jumped up, his chair clattering to the floor as Chelsea peeked around the curtain and then edged inside. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, but a thin t-shirt stretched across her ample breasts, and her shorts ended right at the top of her thighs.

Seth gulped, staring, and lifted one hand. "Hey. Um, hi," he spluttered. "Seth. Seth Cohen. Nice to see you—that is, meet you. I'm, I'm—"

"Seth Cohen?" Ryan finished wryly. "Yeah, I think she got that. Chelsea, hi. Come on in."

"Yes! Come in! Here, please, sit down," Seth urged, gesturing to the spot where the chair had stood. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Where?" Chelsea asked, dimpling.

Seth gaped blankly at the empty space and then dove to retrieve the upended chair. "Oops, sorry. Wait. Let me just--"

"You know what? It's okay, Seth. But thanks anyway." Strutting to the bed, Chelsea planted her hands on her hips, scowling as she examined Ryan. "Shit, Ace," she declared. "Didn't I tell you to take care yourself? You look like crap."

Seth smirked, but his glee gave way to a stunned whimper when Chelsea leaned over and kissed Ryan, long and deep, on the lips. "Does that make you feel any better?" she purred.

"Oh yeah," Ryan murmured as Seth, watching, nodded dazedly and gurgled, "Uh-huh."

"Jerry told me what happened. That son-of-a-bitch Colston--" As she pronounced his name, Chelsea's voice quavered. Her bravado evaporated and her eyes brimmed with tears. "Ryan, I am so, so sorry that you got hurt defending me. How I can ever make it up to you?"

Her fingers threaded through Ryan's hair and he bit his lip, peering up from under his lashes. "Another kiss might help," he suggested slyly.

Chelsea smiled tremulously. "Well, if you say so . . ." She started to bend down, then glanced over her shoulder at Seth.

"Oh. I, um—yeah." Clapping one hand over his eyes, Seth shuffled backwards, humming to cover the intimate sounds coming from the bed. After a minute he peeked through his fingers. Chelsea was perched next to Ryan, running a finger down his cheek while he smiled contentedly.

"You know, I really shouldn't kiss you like that," she teased. "It's practically incest."

Seth choked as Ryan's eyes narrowed. "Incest?" he prompted skeptically.

"Mm-hmm. Apparently they only let family members back here." Chelsea tickled Ryan's throat with the end of her ponytail. "So I told the receptionist that I was your sister."

From the hallway came a small, meaningful cough and Sandy's warm chuckle. Ryan's head jerked up and Seth spun around to see Kirsten, her arms crossed over a set of scrubs and her brows arched quizzically, standing next to his grinning father.

"Your sister, Ryan? Funny, you never mentioned a sister to us." Before Chelsea could get up, Sandy crossed to greet her, smirking at the matching blushes on Seth's and Ryan's faces.

"Sandy, no, this is--"

His eyebrows wagging, Sandy dismissed Ryan's stammered introduction. "Oh, I think I can guess, kid . . . How do you do?" he said, extending his hand to Chelsea. "I'm Sandy Cohen and this is my wife Kirsten. Obviously you already know both of our boys—well, since you're related to one of them. It's very nice to meet you . . .?"

"Chelsea Brahler." Scrambling off the bed, Chelsea tugged down her inadequate shorts and smoothed her rumpled t-shirt. "Mr. Cohen, I am so sorry. I know I shouldn't have lied to get in here. Or gotten Ryan involved in this whole mess at all. It's my fault that he got hurt."

"No, it's not," Ryan protested.

"Of course it's not," Kirsten agreed unexpectedly. She set down the scrubs she was holding and offered Chelsea her hand. "Nobody blames you for what happened, Chelsea. We all know who's responsible."

Ryan's breath hissed as he ducked his head guiltily.

Kirsten laughed and ruffled his hair. "No, sweetie, not you either. Don't worry. We'll get all of this settled later." Glancing meaningfully at her husband and son, she stroked Ryan's arm before turning back to Chelsea. "I think it's very sweet that you wanted to check on Ryan, especially considering what you've been through tonight. But right now it might be best if you didn't . . ."

"Oh!" Chelsea exclaimed as Kirsten gestured to her own lips. "Of course. I was just . . ."

"Making Ryan feel better," Seth concluded, nodding sagely. "Have you ever thought about becoming a doctor, Chelsea? Because you've got a really great bedside manner."

"Seth!"

Three indignant voices chorused his name and he barricaded himself behind the chair. "What? Was that inappropriate? Okay, shutting up now."

Chelsea laughed. "And I'm leaving. Obviously you're in good hands, Ace. Although--" Hesitantly, she faced Sandy and Kirsten. "If it's all right, I would like to stop by in a few days. Just to make sure that Ryan is doing all right?"

"I'm sure he'd enjoy that," Kirsten replied.

Ryan waved his hand. "Hey! I'm right here, people. But yeah, Chelsea, that would be great."

"It would be. Awesome," Seth agreed reverently.

"Then I'll see you soon, Ace," Chelsea promised, blowing a kiss as she retreated. "Oh—you too, Seth!"

Sandy waited until Chelsea disappeared down the corridor. Then he assumed what Seth called his "lawyer face", appraising Ryan with apparent gravity. "You do seem more . . . relaxed . . . since Chelsea's visit," he observed. "But you know what, kid? I think Kirsten and I have some news that will make you feel even better."

Warily hopeful, Ryan's eyes flickered from Sandy to Kirsten. "Yeah?" he prompted.

Kirsten shook out the set of scrubs, examining them critically. "Hmm. They should fit. At least well enough for you to wear--"

"Home?"

"Home," she confirmed, her beaming smile mirroring Ryan's own. "Sandy and I spoke to Dr. McHolland and he says that as long as you're careful of the stitches and follow doctor's orders--"

Cupping a hand in front of his mouth, Seth muttered, "Which means do everything that the Kirsten says."

"Yes, smartie." Kirsten admitted, looping an arm through her son's. "That is exactly what it means."

"So what do you say, Ryan?" Sandy asked. Resting one hand on Ryan's shoulder, he circled Kirsten's waist with the other, his touch connecting them all. "I think we're all ready to go home. This whole family has some healing to do."


	8. Part 8A: Overdue Conversations

Knight-Errant 8: Overdue Conversations 

"Ryan? Oh, Ry-an. Wakey-wakey, dude."

Ryan groaned as he burrowed deeper into his pillow, trying to escape the persistent, singsong voice.

"No, that's not doing it, buddy," Seth chided indulgently. "That? Is going back to sleepy-bye. You need to wakey-wakey now."

"Seth." Ryan opened one eye to a baleful slit. "Do not say 'wake'—that thing you said. Just. Don't. I mean it."

"Aw," Seth cooed. He settled comfortably on the ottoman, his expression both smug and solicitous. "Is somebody cranky after his night of derring-do?"

Wincing slightly, Ryan shifted. His hand automatically covered the thick bandage on his side. "I'm sore. And tired, that's all. And don't say 'derring-do.' In fact, not saying anything at all would be good."

Seth grinned widely. "Yep, you're cranky. But then . . . you don't know what I know." He waited, his shoulders shimmying in an eager 'I've-got-a-secret' move, but Ryan simply yawned and draped one arm over his eyes. "Okay, fine, you don't like wakey-wakey? Then how about rise and shine? Come on, you can do it, buddy. Well, maybe not so much the shine part. But seriously, you should get up now. Brush your teeth, splash some cold water on your face, get dressed . . ." With a frown, Seth wiggled his fingers over his own curls. "Maybe try to do something with that sorry mess you call hair."

"Seth!"

"What? I'm just saying. But I suppose bedhead works too."

"What are you talking about?" Ryan demanded. "And why are you here anyway?"

Seth's eyes widened innocently. "I live here, dude. Well, not here in the poolhouse exactly--"

"Could have fooled me."

"Ah, the fabled Atwood wit survives. Anyway, Mom sent me out to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine. I'm _sleeping,_" Ryan growled. "At least I was until youdecided to wake me up."

"Dude, hey, somebody had to. You've been out for like, thirteen hours straight."

Startled, Ryan lowered his arm to blink his disbelief. "Thirteen? No, I haven't."

"Right," Seth nodded. "That's totally true. Except you have."

"I have not," Ryan repeated stubbornly. What about--?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of his nightstand with its carafe of water and prescription bottle.

"Nope. Nope, sorry. Swallowing a pill every four hours doesn't count as waking up. You missed breakfast, you missed lunch, and if it weren't for me braving the lion's den to get you up now, you would miss dinner too. _Dinner_, buddy. As in the gala family event that we had planned for last night. Besides, you would also miss . . . wait for it now!" Trilling a fanfare, Seth beat a spastic drum-roll on his thigh. "Your surprise!"

"Oh, God." With a stifled moan, Ryan buried his face again. "Not a surprise."

Seth got up to rummage through the baskets of clothes on Ryan's shelves. "Oh, you'll like this one," he promised, tossing sweatpants and a t-shirt onto the bed "But I think you'll want to be dressed for it. Do you need any--?"

"No!" Scrambling up hastily, Ryan grabbed his clothes and glared a warning at Seth. "I do not need help getting dressed."

Seth raised his hands, feigning hurt indignation. "Fine, then, big boy. You're on your own. But hurry. Oh, and don't forget--" Baring his teeth, he mimed brushing and flossing them. "And mouthwash!" he advised as he backed toward the door. "Come to think of it, you might want to get to get some sun too. You're looking pretty pasty." With a grin, he ducked outside, narrowly avoiding the pillow Ryan heaved at him. Then he peeked back in, just long enough to add, "I'll call you when dinner's here, dude!"

Ryan opened the poolhouse door cautiously. Despite having slept so long, he felt fuzzy and slightly unsteady on his feet. It took him a moment to focus. Squinting against the late afternoon sun, he took one stiff step over the threshold. At the same time a pair of tan, very toned legs swung off a deck chair. Ryan stopped short, one hand pressed to his side, the other behind him, still grasping the doorknob. He watched, speechless, as the woman stood up. She was dressed, improbably, like a high school majorette. The gold sequins of her tiny halter-top winked, her pleated skirt swished high on her thighs, and her white boots clicked on the concrete when she moved.

Ryan swallowed hard. "Chelsea?" he stammered.

"Hi, Ace," she drawled. Taking her time, Chelsea studied his body, taking in his wifebeater, his chiseled arms and shoulders, his light sweat pants and bare feet. The tip of her tongue flicked out playfully. "Now that's a good look for you," she observed with a judicious nod. "Mm-hmm. Even with the battle scars."

Ryan flushed, touching his bruised temple self-consciously. "Um . . . thanks?"

"You're welcome. So . . . surprised to see me?"

"Yeah. Definitely surprised." Ryan's eyes, which had been dazzled by her appearance, suddenly flickered with comprehension. "Wait," he said slowly. "A surprise. Seth knew you were here, didn't he?"

"'Course." Chelsea shrugged blithely. "It was his idea for me to wait for you here. But your folks said it was all right." Her hair flamed sunset red as she tossed it back. "Do you mind?"

Clutching the doorknob, Ryan sucked a long breath through his teeth. "Not. At. All," he replied.

"Good." Chelsea dimpled briefly before her smile gave away to embarrassment. "I know I said that I'd wait a couple days before coming over, but then . . . well, I wanted to make sure you were really okay. So I decided to stop by on my way to work. You are okay, aren't you, Ace?"

"Uh-huh. Yeah. I'm . . . good." Nodding numbly, Ryan gestured toward her outfit. "So that--?"

"Oh. Right. It's high school fantasy night at the club. Normally I change there, but I figured . . . why not? This way I don't have to rush." Chelsea started to twirl, her skirt rippling upwards in enticing waves. At the last minute, though, she stopped. Smoothing the fabric back against her legs, she gestured to a gauzy poncho folded over her chair. "Of course, I was wearing a cover-up, but Seth--he's your brother, right? He suggested that I take it off. That Seth, he's a little . . . enthusiastic, isn't he?"

"Enthusiastic," Ryan echoed dryly. "Yeah. Except more like a lot."

"He's nice though. Your whole family is nice."

Ryan glanced at the Cohen house, considering. "My family?" he mused. A slow smile warmed his face and he murmured, almost to himself. "They really are, aren't they?"

Chelsea smiled and stooped down to retrieve a large canvas bag from beside her chair. She dangled the package enticingly by its woven straps. "So . . . brought you something," she caroled. "Want to see?"

"Absolutely." Ryan's voice dropped an octave. "Would you like to come inside?" Chelsea's brows arched and he backtracked hastily. "Or we could just stay out here."

Chelsea laughed. "Inside," she decided, wrinkling her nose pertly. "That might be a good idea--getting out of the sun, I mean. I burn."

"You certainly do," Ryan murmured. Fumbling with the knob, he opened the door and stood aside, watching appreciatively as Chelsea sauntered in.

"Nice," she announced as she surveyed the poolhouse furnishings. "Simple, neat, very masculine . . . The place looks like you. Although I bet all those windows can be a problem when you want privacy."

"Not as much as the habit some people have of walking in unannounced."

"Oh! Seth?"

Ryan nodded ruefully. "Plus a few others. I'm thinking about getting a lock."

"Or you could just rig a pail of cold water over the door," Chelsea suggested. "It worked when I did it with my little brother."

Ryan's chuckle caught on a wince and he rubbed his side automatically. Chelsea's eyes narrowed. Dropping her bag, she grabbed his hand and eased him into the chair, adding a pillow to prop behind his back.

"Chelsea! It was just a twinge," he objected. "I'm fine."

"And we're going to keep it that way," Chelsea retorted. She ignored his continued protests as she lifted his feet onto the ottoman. Then she scanned the room swiftly. Spying the carafe and prescription bottle, she filled a glass of water, poured out two capsules, and handed them both to Ryan.

"Take them," she ordered.

"I don't need--"

"Yes you do. Your mother told me that if you were in pain, you should take these pills."

"Kirsten—she's not--"

"Ryan," Chelsea warned. She planted her hands on her hips, glowering. "Don't argue. Just do as you're told."

"You know, you can't order me around," Ryan protested with a mock scowl. You're not Sipowicz today."

Chelsea shook her head sternly, bouncing her gaudy, fur-tipped baton like a nightstick. "Hey, I still have a baton, Ace. And I know how to use it."

Ryan's mouth quirked, but he nodded in surrender. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed. Obediently, he popped both pills in his mouth, took a sip of water and set the glass on the arm of his chair.

"Oh no you don't. Drink it all." Chelsea thrust the tumbler back in his hands. "You need to keep hydrated. Doctor's orders."

"Why do I feel like I'm back at the hospital?" Ryan grumbled. "Forget cop and majorette. You should be wearing a nurse's uniform."

Chelsea lifted her chin, preening. "I do have one you know."

"I bet you do." Ryan's voice was husky. Ducking his head, he peered up from beneath his lashes, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes glinting with instinctive desire.

"Whoa!" Chelsea gasped shakily. She took an unsteady step back. "You . . . really shouldn't do that, Ace. I'm just here as a friend. With your parents' permission, and, and, and . . . oh hell. I did come to give you some TLC, after all." Bending down, she breathed a kiss against Ryan's bruised forehead, before she let her lips slide slowly down to met his. Instantly, he reached up to cup her head, his fingers threading through her hair as she swept her tongue between his teeth and around his mouth, humming faintly the whole time.

When Ryan finally pulled back, they were both breathless.

"I'm sorry. This . . . I shouldn't . . ." he stammered.

"I know." Chelsea stood up, a little shakily. "Not with your parents--"

"And my girlfriend . . ."

"Oh!" Startled, Chelsea stared at him. "You have a girlfriend?"

"Yeah," Ryan confessed ruefully. "Things are a little, well, strange between us right now, but . . . yeah, I do." His face shuttered as his voice drifted off. "I think I do," he amended softly.

Chelsea sat down on the ottoman, careful not to lean against Ryan's legs. Very gently, she covered his hand with hers. "You don't have to tell me. But if you want to . . . Last night, Ryan—well, you saved my life. So if I can help at all? Maybe just listen?"

Ryan ducked his head. "There's really nothing to tell," he claimed. "It's just . . . Marissa has been through hell the last few months." He cast a furtive, shamed glance at Chelsea before dropping his gaze again. "You'd understand," he whispered.

"Oh." Chelsea's lips pinched on a strangled breath. "You mean, something like . . . Colston?"

"Kind of." Ryan's voice was so low that Chelsea could barely hear him. "I want to help her. I do. But I can't seem to give her what she needs now and, well, there may be somebody else who can."

"Another guy," Chelsea concluded.

Ryan's shrug was accompanied by a reluctant nod. "Marissa says they're just friends, and I believe her, only . . . nothing between us feels right any more. Nothing is easy."

"Aw, Ryan." Chelsea laced her fingers through his, kneading his palms. "A lot of times . . . love isn't easy." Sliding closer, she forced him to look into her eyes. "You know, I'm only dressed like a high school student. Actually, I'm at least five years older than you are. So trust me. I know what I'm talking about."

Ryan bit his lip, fighting a sly grin. "Right," he conceded. "Because you're so ancient."

"Hey!" Chelsea squeezed his hand. "Watch it there, Ace. I did not say ancient! And don't try to chance the subject either." Ryan flushed slightly, averting his face, and she gave a sage nod. "See! I knew that's what you were trying to do . . . But seriously, Ryan, you know that I'm right. A lot of times . . . love is really hard."

"I know," Ryan admitted. He sighed, staring at the ceiling. "And Marissa and I . . . we've been through so much together. I really want it to work. It's just that I'm . . . not sure if it can anymore." Lowering his head, he looked at Chelsea. With a small, rueful smile, he pulled his hand out of hers. "But I can't complicate it . . . I mean, not any more than I just did."

"You mean kissing me."

Ryan took a deep breath before he answered. "It was . . . you are . . . great, Chelsea. But that was wrong."

"I guess it was," she agreed thoughtfully. "But, Ryan it was my fault, really. After what you did for me—and then you just looked so . . . Well, never mind." Chelsea hitched her top higher and tugged down her skirt. "Back to business. Time to give you your get-well presents . . . I mean, your real ones this time."

Digging into one section of her bag, she pulled out a small, desert plant in an earthenware container. Ryan cocked his head quizzically as he accepted it.

"I was going to buy flowers," she explained, flushing slightly. "But you don't seem like the flowery type. So I got this instead. The florist said it's adaptable, and it will thrive as long as you give it a little attention . . . Is it too silly?"

"No. It's great." Ryan touched the serrated leaves, smiling. "I like it."

"And then there's this." From another section, Chelsea retrieved a giant chocolate chip cookie, edged with red frosting. A message on top read, "To My Hero."

Ryan's face flamed instantly. "C'mon," he demurred. "It was no big deal, Chelsea."

"It was a very big deal," she insisted.

Her voice quavered and Ryan peered up, alarmed. "Are you okay?"

"Me? Fine," she claimed staunchly. "I'm not the one who wound up in the hospital."

"Chelsea?" Ryan gave her a searching look, and she shrank down, suddenly appearing very young and vulnerable. "Hey, I confided in you. Come on. You can tell me."

"Honestly?" Chelsea inched a little closer, absently resting one hand on Ryan's ankle. "I can't stop thinking about what might have happened last night, to me—and to you . . . I just keep seeing him . . ." She shuddered, rubbing her arms.

Ryan slid off the chair to sit next to her, and she leaned against him, checking first to make sure that it wasn't his wounded side.

"Are you sure you want to go back to work today?"

Chelsea pursed her lips pensively. "Yes," she said at last. "You know what they say about getting back on the horse--Okay, maybe that's not the best comparison for a lap dancer to use. But honestly, Ryan, I'll be okay. Len has already hired extra security, and Jerry and the girls are all going to look out for me. Besides," She hesitated, unconsciously stiffening in Ryan's arms. "I don't want to be a victim."

"Good for you," he murmured. For a moment he just held her. Then he added slowly, "But you do have my number, if you need me, right?"

Chelsea jerked upright, bristling. "I am not going to call you, Ryan Atwood!" She glared at him, fierce and adamant. "Not for that. You were amazing, and I'll always be grateful, but I never, ever want you to do anything like that again."

"Chelsea--"

"I mean it, Ryan. Look, I don't expect you to stand by and just watch somebody be hurt. I know you couldn't do that. Just next time . . . be careful," she pleaded. "Be smart. Because your life matters too, you know. A lot."

There was a brief silence. At last Chelsea gently disengaged herself from Ryan's sheltering arm and stood up. "I kept the number you gave me last night though," she admitted. "But Ryan, I wondered, the lawyer's name . . . Sandy Cohen? That's your dad, right?"

Ryan gazed past Chelsea for a moment. "Yes," he said quietly. "It is."

"And he's a good lawyer?"

A faint, grateful smile lit Ryan's face as he nodded. "There's nobody better."

"Good. I will definitely call him if I ever encounter another Colston. But now, I'd better get going before I'm late for work." Stooping down, Chelsea started to kiss Ryan's cheek, but at the last minute, she simply cupped it with her hand, stroking his skin lightly as she smiled down at him. "Remember, I still owe you a dinner," she said. "Pasta at my place, as soon as you're all better." She grinned impishly, "And I'll make my Better than Sex chocolate cake—you know, so we won't be tempted."

Ryan laughed, and her smile grew brighter.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, digging into her bag one last time. "I almost forgot: Seth asked me to give you this." Pulling out a CD, she handed it to Ryan. "He calls it the Recovery Mix—music to inspire the recuperation process. You can bring it when you come to dinner if you want. But," she warned mysteriously, "I think you and I better skip the first cut."

With a puzzled frown, Ryan flipped the case over to read Seth's notes. "Ah," he drawled wryly. "Sexual Healing. Yeah, I guess we should avoid that one."

Chelsea shouldered her bag, twirling her baton once before she stuck it inside. "I'll call you, Ace," she promised. "You take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too," Ryan urged.

"Oh, I will." At the door, Chelsea paused, looking back with mingled concern and admiration. "One more thing, Ryan. Your girlfriend? Marissa? I hope really things work out. And I know I shouldn't say this, since it's not like I understand the whole situation, but still . . . If she doesn't realize that she has the best guy right now—well, it's her loss. Because honestly, Ace? You are. The best."

Before Ryan could reply, Chelsea blew him a kiss, slipped out the door, and vanished in a flash of white and gold.

TBC


	9. Chapter 8B: Overdue Conversations

**Knight-Errant 8(B): Overdue Conversations**

"So, I saw Chelsea leaving. How did you like the halftime show, buddy? Pretty awesome surprise, right?" Seth grinned through the French doors toward the poolhouse, even though Ryan was nowhere in sight.

"It wasn't a show. It was a visit. From a friend."

"Uh-huh. Riiiight. A very sexy, very skilled, baton-twirling friend. You know what a baton is like, Ryan? A baton is a lot like a--"

"Seth!" Ryan strode to the poolhouse door, phone cupped to his ear. In response to his thunderous glare, Seth wagged his fingers gleefully. "Do not finish that sentence. And why are you calling me anyway?"

Seth's face fell into an injured pout. "I said I would," he explained. "Dinner's in fifteen minutes. Be sure to let us know if you'll be late, all right? I mean if you have any unfinished business you need to take care of or anything. You know, like maybe polishing your ba--"

He recoiled, chuckling, as the line abruptly went dead. Then he turned to inspect the table, which was set exactly the way it had been the night before. Seth straightened a napkin, nudged a fork one-quarter inch to the right, pulled a half-dead leaf off the centerpiece, and finally stepped back to observe his handiwork.

"Perfection again!" he announced, twisting so he could pat himself on the back. Then he frowned at the empty room. "Aaaand, once again, there's nobody here to acknowledge my wonderfulness. Where is my adoring public anyway? Mom! Dad!"

From down the hall, he heard a muffled "Coming, son."

"Okay, they're coming. And Ryan's coming. But right now I'm all alone and talking to myself. Where's Captain Oats when I need him?" With a long-suffering sigh, Seth sat down at the table, folding his hands in front of him like a schoolboy. Almost at once he bounced back up again. "Lemons!" he exclaimed. "All right, minor demerit. I forgot the lemons."

Wrenching the refrigerator door open, he removed a bowl of the fruit. He was about to turn away when he froze suddenly. His brow furrowed, Seth stared into the bright depths of the refrigerator. One fist tapped his chin restively.

Behind him, Sandy strolled into the kitchen. He flipped through a sheaf of legal-looking papers, jotting a note as he headed automatically for the coffee maker. Then he paused, bemused, when he noticed Seth planted in front of the fridge's open door.

"Problem, son?" he asked mildly. "Did we run out of food?"

Seth's face creased in a scowl. "Actually, there's too much food. All the stuff I ordered for last night." He pointed an accusing finger at half a dozen white take-out containers. "It's all still there. Untouched."

Sandy peered over his son's shoulder. His eyebrows quirked upward in agreement. "Yep. Sure is. Forgot all about that. We're going to be eating leftovers for a week since I called in a new order for dinner tonight. But, hey, after everything that's happened? Might as well start fresh today, right?"

"Start fresh. Ah yes, as in fresh food and a fresh start for the Cohen clan. Points for the subtle pun, and also, very wise of you, dad." With a nod, Seth closed the refrigerator door and leaned against it.

"I try." Sandy smiled absently over his mug, sipping his coffee as he scribbled something else on the document he held.

Seth's gaze followed the movement, and immediately his entire demeanor changed. His body stiffened and his face set in hard, despondent lines. "The proverbial day late and dollar short, of course," he muttered. "But still, a nice symbolic touch. Dad." Crossing his arms, he glowered at his father reproachfully.

"Seth?"

Confused, Sandy reached out to clasp his son's shoulder, but Seth shrugged away from his touch. He marched over to the counter, plucked a lemon from the bowl, and cut it viciously into quarters. For a moment, Sandy just watched, his brows thickly bristled in thought, as the knife snapped down into the cutting board. At last he ventured carefully, "I thought we cleared the air yesterday, son. But I take it that we're still not okay."

"Well, I don't know, Dad." Seth whacked another lemon in half with particular violence. "It all depends on how you define okay. For example, it could mean everything is fine now, or it could mean same-old, same-old status . . . Ow! Ow! Shit!" Dropping the knife, he grabbed a napkin and began to dab his eye, hopping in place the whole time.

Sandy hissed with empathy. "The citrus strikes back, huh?" he observed as he dampened a cloth with cold water. "Yeah, lemons can be vindictive fruit, can't they? C'mere, son."

Seth grimaced, but he shuffled forward reluctantly.

"Ow, ow, ow! And by the way, did I mention 'Ow!'?" He flailed at his father's hand, cringing away from Sandy's ministrations, just as his mother entered. "Okay, really not helping here, Dad!"

"Well, you've got to open your eye, son."

"Right, only I can't if you keep stabbing it!"

Kirsten hurried over, her face creased with concern. "Seth? Sandy? What happened?"

"Ah, what happened?" Seth echoed. "That's the $64,000 question, isn't it, Mom?" Pushing the cloth out of the way, he peered blearily out of one red, half-open slit.

Kirsten shook her head in confusion. "Sandy?" she prompted.

"He got lemon juice in his eye," Sandy explained. Dropping the cloth into the sink, he leaned back to study his son's belligerent expression. "But I think Seth is really talking about the big picture in the Cohen household. As in, what happened to us as a family? Am I right, son?"

Seth squinted at his parents. "Yeah," he mumbled grudgingly.

"Oh, sweetie," Kirsten sighed. She rubbed his arm, brushing his hair off his wet forehead at the same time. "Last night was horrible for all of us but you've got to remember, Ryan will be fine--"

"That's not the point!" Seth retorted, pulling away. "I mean, it is, but it's not the whole point. We were so busy rescuing Ryan who was so busy rescuing Chelsea that we never got the chance to--"

He broke off abruptly, seething in frustration, as Kirsten's cell phone began to ring. She glanced down at it, distracted, and then held up one finger.

"I'll just be a minute," she promised, slipping out of the kitchen, the phone already open and clasped to her ear.

"A minute," Seth mocked. "By Mars time, maybe. You know, I thought the Stepford 'rents had moved out last night, but I guess I was wrong."

"Stop it right there, Seth." A faint edge of irritation cut through what remained of Sandy's sympathy. "Your mother and I understand that we've been . . . preoccupied lately. Not as involved as we should have been with you boys this year. But that's going to change."

Seth jerked his chin pointedly to the folder of papers that Sandy had dropped on the counter. "Yeah," he scoffed. "I can see that."

"What? You're upset about this?" Startled, Sandy glanced at the document. "Son, these are just some papers I wanted to finalize before dinner, that's all. They're important--"

"Uh-huh. Important business papers. Because we all know that's what matters to Sanford Cohen, mover and shaker, illustrious head of the illustrious Newport Group. Sure you can spare time for dinner with us, Dad?"

Sandy took a deep, measured breath. "If you would just listen for one minute, Seth--"

"Listen to what?" Kirsten asked as she came back into the kitchen.

"To more excuses," Seth declared. With feigned nonchalance, he carried the quartered lemons to the table and lobbed a piece in each glass, heedless of the resultant splashes. Then he wheeled around to confront his parents again. "But hey, why not? Go ahead. Dad? Mom? Who wants to go first? I know you're both missing important stuff, like, hmm . . . what would that be for you, Mom? Oh right, a stimulating conversation with Julie about how to find some Botoxed divorcée her dream date."

Kirsten's mouth tightened. "Seth Ezekiel," she chided.

Seth shrugged, unmoved. "What? Talking business with Julie is pretty much all you've done for months. It's almost like you never came home from Suriak. We don't see you any more than we did last summer. And stuff happened last summer you know. Important stuff."

"That is enough, son," Sandy warned.

"What? Enough truthiness?" Seth countered. "You know I'm right, Dad. Or you would, if you weren't spending all of your time trying to recreate the Newport Group in the image of the new, not-so-improved Sanford Cohen."

"I am not--" Sandy began, but his son raged on, oblivious.

"Meanwhile, Ryan is trying to deal with all the shit Trey left behind. And, okay, it's not like I have anything that major to handle, but hello? College applications? Moving? Do you guys even care that I'm going to be living clear across the country next year?" Seth plopped onto a stool, exhausted. "All alone," he added morosely. "'Cause Brown will only accept one Harbor student, so if I get in, Summer won't. That means, no Summer, no Ryan, no--" His gaze flickered up and he sighed. "Anybody."

"Oh, Seth! Honey!" Slipping onto the stool next to her son, Kirsten covered his hand with her own. "Of course your father and I care that you'll be leaving home. We'll miss you terribly. But we want you to do what's best for you. And since you want to go to Brown—You do want to go there, don't you?"

"Of course I do! But you know, I also, kind of . . ." His mouth twisting, Seth pushed some errant lemon seeds into a pile. "Don't want to leave home. And, you know, everybody. It's called having mixed feelings. Didn't you guys ever take Psych 101? You've heard of it, right?"

Sandy patted his son's shoulder. "Of course we have. We just didn't realize that you were experiencing any."

"He has been though." Ryan's voice startled them, and all three Cohens swiveled to face the French doors.

"Sweetie." Looking slightly abashed, Kirsten got up to greet him with a quick kiss on the cheek. At the same time, she darted a warning glance at her husband and son. "It's so good to see you up finally. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

"You're sure? You're not in any pain?"

Ryan shook his head. "No. I'm okay, Kirsten, I promise." Tilting his head curiously, he studied the tense faces of the three Cohens. "What about you guys?"

"If you're okay, we're okay, kid," Sandy claimed. "So . . . did you have a good visit with Chelsea? She seems very . . . "

"Sweet," Kirsten concluded.

"Yeah," Ryan affirmed shortly. "She is." His gaze darted around the counter, his eyes narrowing as they rested on Seth's hunched shoulders. "Looks like I missed something, though. What's going on here?"

Kirsten flushed. "Nothing. We were just--"

"Having a discussion," Sandy inserted swiftly.

"Or, like, a fight," Seth countered.

Kirsten's jaw tightened. "A discussion," she maintained.

"Right. About, you know, the weather and absentee parents and bizarre career choices and--"

"Actually, son," Sandy injected. "As I recall, we were talking about you." Turning to Ryan, he slid a mug across the counter, his expressive brows wagging a coded message: _Help me defuse this, kid. _ "Seth was just explaining to us that his feelings about going away to college are—complicated."

"Ah." Ryan took the cup, poured himself some coffee and leaned against the counter. Beneath his lowered lashes, laughter danced in his eyes. "Got it. Right. Well, you know, Seth is a complex kind of guy. He tells me that all the time."

Seth jerked upright. "Whoa! Dude!" he protested, bristling. "We're supposed to be a team here. You know, the two amigos. United, we're unstoppable? Whose side are you on anyway?"

Ryan set down his drink, his reflective gaze sweeping slowly from one Cohen to the next. "Ours," he replied at last. "All of ours, I mean."

"Good answer, kid," Sandy murmured. Draping an arm around Ryan, he gestured toward the table. "Why don't we all sit down?" he suggested. "Clear the air before the food gets here. Seth? Honey?"

Seth's mouth twisted. "All of ours, huh? Okay," he conceded grudgingly. "I suppose that makes sense. So . . . yeah, me too." Kirsten took his elbow, propelling him to his feet, and he followed her to the dining area. "But if we're going to talk, all cell phones off," he warned. "And nobody touches any business papers."

"Ah! Papers! Thanks for reminding me, son." Sandy made an abrupt u-turn to grab his folder from the counter. "Actually," he announced, as he sat down, "I wanted to share these with you boys."

With a groan, Seth buried his face in his hands, while Ryan frowned, perplexed.

"Your mother already knows about this. This is a document amending my terms of service and relinquishing most of my responsibilities at the Newport Group," Sandy explained. "I'm still going to work there, but . . . well, just not 24/7. And only as legal counsel." He glanced at Seth, then at Ryan, eyes dark with an unspoken apology. "This should give me time to be a dad again. And who knows? Maybe I could fit in some pro bono work for the P.D.'s office." Tapping the papers together, he flipped them over decisively. "So, guys?" he prompted. "What do you say?"

Ryan's face lit with a slow, gratified smile. "It sounds great, Sandy."

"Glad you think so, kid." Sandy looked pointedly at his son. "Seth?"

"Me? Oh. Um . . . Oh," Seth stammered, squirming. He flashed a weak, abashed grin at his father. "So that's the deal with the business papers today. Yeah, well, see I thought . . . Okay, I guess you know what I thought. Which was apparently kind of, um, wrong. But this? It's cool, Dad. More _you_, you know? I mean, hey, after all, you are a pretty good lawyer."

"The best," Ryan corrected. "But Sandy, if you're stepping down, who's going to pick up the slack at the Newport Group?"

"I am," Kirsten declared. Both boys turned to her, eyes wide with surprise and she smiled serenely.

"You, Mom?" Seth swallowed, a glimmer of embarrassed comprehension flickering across his face. "But what about NewMatch? All those poor, lonely singles out there?"

"I just informed Julie that we are no longer partners. From now on the dating service—and all those poor, lonely singles—are all hers."

With a wince, Seth slumped in his chair. "Ah. Then before, when you were . . ." He mimed holding a telephone. "That was--"

"Exactly. The call you were so upset about," Sandy concluded. He fixed a laser-like stare on his cringing son. "Is there something you'd like to say to your mother, young man?"

"Um . . . sorry, Mom?" Seth ventured. Hastily plucking a lily from the centerpiece, he handed it to his mother, offering her his best puppy-dog face at the same time.

Kirsten promptly returned the flower to the vase. "And your father?" she prompted with mock-severity.

Sighing heavily, Seth addressed his dinner plate. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he chanted. "I may have, kind of, jumped to conclusions about you guys tonight. Although in my defense, you have to admit that the way you've been acting lately, I, I . . ." Under the pressure of his parents' twin glares, Seth wilted completely. "A little help here, dude?" he muttered, nudging Ryan's elbow.

Ignoring him, Ryan turned to Kirsten. "But I thought you hated the Newport Group," he observed, bewildered. "Why would you want to go back?"

Kirsten inclined her head as she considered the question. "I finally realized . . . it wasn't the work that I hated. It was the _way_ I worked when . . ." Unconsciously, she pulled her napkin to her lap, pleating it between her fingers as she spoke. "When I was trying so desperately to please my father. This time . . . I'm going to please myself. The Newport Group may not make as much money as it did before, but we'll do the kind of projects that might actually help the community. And--" Kirsten paused for a moment, reaching over to take Ryan's hand. She smiled warmly, but her voice sounded hesitant, almost timid. "I would love it if you would work with me, Ryan. That is, if you still want to intern at the Newport Group."

Ryan caught his breath, dazzled. "Really?" he replied eagerly. "You mean I'd report to you? Not to Matt? That would be . . . it would be great."

"Sure you won't mind the change, kid?" Sandy teased. "It pretty much guarantees no more visits to strip clubs on company time."

"There will be no visits to strip clubs, period," Kirsten amended sternly. Her gaze switched from Ryan to Seth. "Not for either of you."

Seth bobbed his head obediently. "Right," he agreed. "Absolutely. No trips to strip clubs until we're legal." Leaning over, he whispered to Ryan, "But maybe some private shows in the poolhouse, right?—Hey, buddy!" He grabbed his side, scowling. "That hurt!"

"It did?" Ryan blinked innocently. "Sorry. My elbow slipped. Must have been a muscle spasm."

"A muscle spasm? That is so totally—No, no, you know what? Considering everything, I am going to let that one pass, bro—even though it was a blatant, gignormous lie." His face wreathed in a magnanimous smile, Seth tapped a knife against his water glass. "All right, family, I think it's obvious that last night turned out to be an educational experience for everyone. The question is, what exactly have we learned? Mr. Atwood, we'll start with you." Folding his hands on the table, Seth gave a professorial nod.

At first Ryan looked startled, and then amused, but finally he lapsed into a reflective silence. After a long moment he answered, "I suppose . . . um, I learned that I should always call when my plans change and you guys are expecting me. And, well." He took a deep breath. With visible embarrassment he added reluctantly, "Chelsea said . . . I shouldn't rush into dangerous situations alone."

"Miss Chelsea is very wise for a stripper," Seth declared with approval. Catching his mother's glare, he amended hastily, "Or a dancer. Or even, I mean . . . she's just very wise, that's all."

"Yes, she is," Kirsten agreed. She squeezed Ryan's hand, her eyes clouded with residual fear, and her tone became grave. "I hope you listen to her, Ryan. We're very proud of your compassion and courage, and we love that your first instinct is always to help other people. But that can get you into serious trouble, and sometimes . . ."

"Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor," Sandy concluded. "Think you can remember that, kid?"

Ryan touched his side ruefully. "I'll try," he promised.

"Excellent!" Seth proclaimed. He made a check mark on an invisible blackboard. "So Mr. Atwood has learned that a cell phone is his friend, and that he needs to curb his inner Kid Chino. Anything else, Mr. Atwood?"

Ducking his head, Ryan peered up at Sandy and Kirsten. "Yeah," he murmured, almost shyly. "I guess I learned . . . I can always count on you. I mean, I already knew that, really, but you showing up that way last night? Worrying enough to come after me? It was just . . . I mean, thanks."

"You're welcome," Kirsten replied tenderly. "And you can always count on us. But, sweetie, parents can't always be right there when their child gets in trouble. We were lucky last night, all of us. But there will be times . . ."

"No, I get that," Ryan assured her. "It's just good to know--" He flushed slightly. "That you, you know, worry. And care."

"Very touching, Mr. Atwood," Seth observed. "Actually veering towards the maudlin, but I'll let it slide this time, since you're clearly still recovering from your night of derring-do." Ryan shot him a death-glare and he smirked happily. "Moving on, then! Mr. Cohen, you're up."

Sandy tossed his folder of papers onto the sideboard, leaving the table clear. "You already know what I learned," he replied. "I learned that I'm not a businessman, and that trying to be one now won't change what Caleb thought of me. It certainly can't bring him back to life--"

"Sandy!" Stunned, Kirsten covered her mouth. "You mean all this time . . . Is that why--?"

Raking back his hair, Sandy sighed heavily. "I don't know, sweetheart," he admitted. "It's just that you missed your father so much. And he _was_ the Newport Group. I guess I thought if I could salvage the company, somehow it would keep him alive, and I don't know . . . prove something to you both. Pretty stupid, right?"

"Not stupid," Kirsten murmured. She blinked back tears, her lips trembling. "It's sweet. Only . . . Sandy, I never wanted you to be like my father. I loved him in spite of his character. But I love you for _having _character, and I adore the fact that you've always been your own man. That Sandy Cohen, though? To be honest, I've missed him these last few months. All of us did."

"I know." Sandy shook his head grimly. "Once I got involved in the company, it just took over my life somehow. I lost track of everything that really matters. Like I said—stupid. But, Professor Cohen, I did learn my lesson. Family first. Always." His expression softened, and he smiled warmly and deliberately first at Seth, then at Ryan, and finally at Kirsten. "I love you all of you."

"Awww," Seth simpered. "Again with the sweet. And also with the saccharine. But thank you for your presentation, Mr. Cohen." Making another air-check on his invisible blackboard, Seth turned to his mother. "All right, Mrs. Cohen, it's your turn. Do you have anything to add to this bathetic display?"

Ryan leaned over, frowning. "You mean pathetic?" he whispered.

"No. I mean bathetic," Seth hissed. "As in, super-sentimental. Schmaltzy. You really need to work on your vocabulary skills, Mr. Atwood. But right now, I believe Mrs. Cohen has the floor."

Taking a deep breath, Kirsten smoothed her wrinkled napkin and returned it to her plate. "All right," she said slowly. "I learned that I can't hide from my problems or my family's problems—not with alcohol, or cooking projects or silly business ventures with supposed friends who, who--" Her voice caught and she stopped, forcing herself to face Ryan. "I didn't know," she concluded brokenly. "What Julie did to you—trying to frame you, having you arrested—I didn't know. If I had, I would never--"

Ryan's eyes flashed with shocked concern. He glanced at Seth and then at Sandy in confusion.

"We told her last night, kid," Sandy confessed.

Seth nodded bleakly. "It was about time that Mom knew."

"I am so, so sorry, Ryan," Kirsten whispered. "It's bad enough that I was gone when you—when you all—needed me. But to work with Julie, to welcome her into our home--"

"Kirsten, please," Ryan urged, his voice ragged with desperation. "It's okay." He touched her wrist hesitantly, at the same time looking to Seth and Sandy for support. "Julie was just trying to protect Marissa. I get that. And I don't think she was thinking clearly--"

He broke off as Seth covered his mouth, choking, and Sandy crimped his lips together, his brows lifted significantly.

"Anyway, it's over," Ryan continued. "I know Julie is sorry--" As though on cue, Seth and Sandy repeated their display, interrupting him. "Stop that," Ryan hissed, kicking Seth's shin for emphasis. "You two are not helping."

"Sorry, kid," Sandy grinned. "But Julie Cooper thinking clearly?"

"And being sorry?" Seth added, rolling his eyes. "Oh, and also Ryan? Ow."

Ignoring him, Ryan focused on Kirsten, his pleading blue eyes searching her contrite ones. "The point is, we got past it," he insisted earnestly. "You can still be Julie's friend. It's all right with me, I promise."

Kirsten shook her head helplessly. "I don't know . . ." she demurred. "After what she did--?"

"She was being a mom." Ryan shrugged, and just for a moment, his expression shuttered. Then he roused, biting his lip and smiling wryly at Kirsten. "But maybe," he suggested, a faint playfulness creeping into his voice, "you could give her lessons in how to be a good one."

Kirsten's lips trembled. Then, abruptly, she dissolved into laughter, her eyes glistening as she tried to stifle her giggles. "Thank you, sweetie," she gasped between breaths.

"What's this? Mrs. Cohen!" Seth protested, in a tone of pompous bluster. "Stop that outburst immediately! I demand order in the classroom."

Sandy frowned. "I thought the expression was 'order in the court'," he whispered to Ryan.

"Court, classroom, whatever. Anyway, I guess we're finished with tonight's What Have I Learned Testimonials." Seth raised his water glass. "So I would like to propose a toast to myself, Seth Ezekiel Cohen, for getting this family back on track--"

"Whoa!" Ryan objected. Snatching the tumbler out of Seth's hand, he returned it to the table. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Well, yeah, the food, but it should be here any minute. Or like, fifteen minutes ago, actually."

Sandy shook his head. "Not the food. You, son. You haven't told us what you learned."

"Me?" Seth retorted, swelling with righteous indignation. "I was the teacher here—the rabbi, the guru, the shaman, if you will--"

"Seth," Kirsten interjected. "What have you learned?"

Seth heaved a dramatic sigh. "Fine, Mom," he grumbled. "I'll humor you. What have I learned? What? Have I? Learned?" Staring at the ceiling, he tapped his chin portentously as the others waited. Then he shrugged and his dimples flashed in a self-effacing grin. "All right, well, I suppose I learned that I've kind of taken you guys for granted. Because, hey, turns out I actually missed all that parental hovering and prying and Dad's sorry attempts at using slang."

"What sorry attempts? I'm still cool! Hip? Rad? Phat? Gnarly?" Sandy turned to Kirsten with a beseeching smile. "Sweetheart, tell me I'm not over the hill."

Kirsten stroked his cheek, her eyes twinkling. "Of course you're not," she assured him. "You're just . . . on your way up, that's all."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Seth shuddered, covering his eyes as they started to kiss. "No PDAs in my classroom, thank you! Anyway, this is my time." He cleared his throat officiously. "So what was I saying? Oh right. I learned that I—okay, sappiness alert here—I need you guys. I mean, all of you. And I don't like it when you kind of disappear."

"Hmm. Disappear," Sandy mused. "You mean, like sailing away and living in Portland for an entire summer, ducking phone calls and threatening never to come home?"

"Dad! Come on!" Seth yelped, his veneer of authority completely gone. "That's ancient history! I was young! Well, a year and a half younger anyway. Anyway, it was a gesture of teenage angst and rebellion. What was your excuse?"

Immediately, Sandy sobered. "Fair question, son. Let me think about that for a minute . . . No, you know what? I have no excuses. I screwed up, but I do not intend to make the same mistake again. You guys are stuck with me. Sandy Cohen, charismatic rebel lawyer, devoted family man and bagel master, is back in the house. Honey?

"No excuses here either," Kirsten declared. She patted Seth's hand, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "And sweetie, I promise I'll go back to hovering and prying and being over-protective until I completely drive you crazy." Turning to Ryan, she included him in her beatific smile. "That goes for you too," she warned. "And by the way, sweetie, did you take your pills before you came inside? Because I can run out and get them--"

"Took them already," Ryan assured her hastily. Stifling a chuckle, he whispered to Seth, "See what you've done?"

Seth nodded happily. "My mission is accomplished."

"Yes, it is. In fact," Sandy announced, getting to his feet. "I think it's time for that toast you mentioned." He waited while Kirsten and Ryan raised their glasses. Placing a hand over his heart, Seth began to bow modestly, but his father tapped his shoulder and nodded toward the remaining tumbler. "Uh-uh. You too, son."

"Me?" Seth complained. "I thought I was the toastee . . . or toasted . . . toastmaster . . . or, you know, whatever. The person being honored."

"Seth. Glass. Now," Kirsten ordered.

With a heavy, hurt sigh, Seth lifted his glass to meet the others.

"A toast," Sandy proclaimed. "To valuable lessons learned. And to the Cohen family—all four of us."

"To all four of us," Kirsten echoed.

She and Sandy beamed around the table as they sipped their drinks, but almost instantly Seth began to splutter.

"Swallowed lemon. Pit!" he gasped, his face reddening as he flailed his arms. "Need . . . Heimlich! Ryan--"

"If you can talk, you aren't choking," Ryan smirked, draining his own glass. "Just breathe, Seth."

"Just breathe, the man says. Just . . . huh, what do you know? That seems to be working." Patting his mouth delicately with his napkin, Seth settled back in his seat. "Okay, no need to panic, people. Crisis averted," he declared. He looked at his parents' amused faces and Ryan's tired, contented one. "So . . . what do we do now?" he asked.

Before anyone could reply, the front doorbell rang.

"Now?" Sandy grinned. "Now, family—we eat."

FIN


End file.
